


Elysian Dream

by Sylaise (Auds_Dods)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-12-11 05:50:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11708112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auds_Dods/pseuds/Sylaise
Summary: When the Veil is broken--and not by Solas--merging two worlds, and Elandrine Lavellan is caught in the middle, how will she navigate the new life she is thrust into? How will Fen'Harel discover who is behind this unsettling magic, all while protecting Lavellan from malevolent forces and juggling his new identity as the god of the Underworld?





	1. The Breaking of the Veil

It was late, that much she knew. Deshanna would be expecting her, would have _been_ expecting her hours ago. She could see the Keeper, her old hands time-worn but strong, brown fingers wrapped tightly around her staff as she sat by the fire, probably going between annoyance and worry, not allowing any of the clan to begin the spring celebration until _she_ returned. Yet here she was—napping in a field.

Elandrine sat up slowly, sighing. She ran her hands over her face, and then looked up at the sky through a half-squinted eye. Growing close to dusk. She should have been back shortly after noon, returning with the batch of Arbor Blessing needed, and yet… she had seen the field filled so high with soft grass, swaying gently in the soft breeze, and had been overcome. If her exploration and journey with magic had taught her anything these last three decades, it was to listen to her intuition. Lately, she had been sleeping so much. She had been Fade-treading what must have been two-thirds of the day.

She couldn’t explain it. The Fade—well—it wasn’t exactly calling to her, per se, but it had been…coming closer. The walls of the Veil were slipping; she could feel it with every breath, with the wind in the trees, and the pollen in the air. She felt it as she did her daily ablutions in the wild river beside their current encampment. It made her drowsy, as if the Fade itself were beckoning.

The young elvhen woman shook her head to clear it. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if the fog was in her mind or surrounding her. She turned to her left, where she had laid her bundle of Arbor Blessing, but it was nowhere to be found. Frowning, she felt her spine prick with the first inkling that something was not as it should be. The air was cold, colder than it should have been. Yes, it was only the first day of spring—well, _tonight_ would be—but it was positively frosty. Elandrine stood, really looking at the trees that loomed overhead, and loom they did. These were not her trees. These were not the woods she had roamed and loved these past three months since her clan had arrived near the Exalted Plains. They had come to bury an elder who had passed quietly in his sleep, but had stayed for trade and love of the land. These were not the trees she knew.

A low, rumbling growl made her turn sharply. A wolf, and not the faithful guardian that had adopted her clan, so to speak. Their guardian was a large black wolf, lavender eyes clear and bright and intelligent. Deshanna had known that wolf was a guardian the moment he had appeared. Her wise eyes, so deep and sagacious, had glimpsed the large quadruped one night outside camp, and had drawn Elandrine aside.

‘ _That is a Guardian,_ ’ the Keeper had whispered, a knobby knuckle gesturing deep into the woods of the north. To Elandrine, he had looked simply like the largest wolf she had ever seen. It wasn’t until her elder and teacher had placed her wizened hands over her eyes, made her seek with her magic, that she had felt the difference. Power. Indescribable power. Elandrine had shaken her head, unable to believe.

‘ _But Keeper…they have not walked this plane for eons. Not since the Emerald Knights._ ’

Deashanna had winked then, never revealing all, the knowledge she held within. ‘ _That is the tale that is told. If our enemies do not know of our most trusted allies, if they are secret, are they not a stronger ally?_ ’

And so she had learned, when she was very young, that myth was not always true, and that her people were kept in ignorance for their own safety. And the knowledge had troubled her, as it had Deshanna. She could see it weigh upon her Keeper, knowledge and secret and heartache. It was the price, Deshanna had said, the price a Keeper paid.

This was most _decidedly_ not their Guardian. This wolf was slender, white and…not alone. Elandrine searched the grass around her for her staff, but it, too, was gone. _Fenedhis._ She jumped to her feet and stumbled. She was no longer wearing her wrappings and tough leather armor. She was dressed in, what appeared to be, a gauze dress that hung in loose, transparent drapes about herself.

_Panic later_ , she thought as she spun, her arm arcing behind her and casting a blinding flash of light. Flowers sprung up around her, and the grass grew lush, gleaming in the coming twilight.

“Panic now!” she exclaimed, moving with blinding speed for the nearest tree. Though swift, she knew she could not outrun a pack of wolves. She could sense the hostility from them, could feel their anger. Something was not right; they were bespelled.

Elandrine lunged for the lowest branch, grabbed it, and hoisted herself up, trying to keep her skirts from getting in the way of her ascent. If pressed, a wolf could scale low branches of a tree. So, up she went, climbing higher and higher with trembling hands. Her stomach was clenched, making her feel ill—or was that magic she felt pouring all around her, soaking up the atmosphere like wine soaking a cloth until it overflowed, rivulets running and spilling everywhere. The Veil—she could not feel the Veil. It was as if magic were air. Suddenly, she was very aware that this was not her world. She was not meant to be here.

Holding in a sob, more of shock and fear than sorrow, Elandrine clutched to the smooth bark of the tree, watching the wolves prowl below. They growled, snarled, snapped at one another. They were very much cursed; Elandrine could feel it. There was madness upon them.

“—ersa!”

Elandrine grew still, hearing the woman’s deep voice. It sounded…it sounded so similar. “Careful!” she called back, her eyes bright in the growing darkness. “There are enchanted wolves!”

“Persa?” she heard the voice cry again. She could feel the magic approaching long before she could see the cloaked figure. _Such_ magic! The cloak, for that was all she could see, was a deep green but seemed to emanate a golden glow. The figure thrust their hand forward, palm first, and a shock of energy shot outwards. The wolves howled, staggered, bayed once, and suddenly crumpled into dry wheat.

Elandrine felt relief wash over her. Another mage! Perhaps another Dalish—someone who could tell her what was going on.

Below, the figure looked up, their face cloaked in shadow. Upon seeing Elandrine, they sighed in relief, and threw back the hood of their cloak.

“Deshanna!” Elandrine cried, only to stop herself. No. This woman looked like Deshanna, but Deshanna from forty or fifty years prior—a Deshanna full of motherly youth.

“‘Deshanna?’” The woman queried, holding out a hand, indicating that Elandrine should come down. “You have never called me such. Is this a new way of speaking ‘mother?’”

“Mother…?” Elandrine said softly, climbing down with ease, her drapings no longer a hindrance.

“Demeter to some,” the lithe figure replied, standing taller than Deshanna had in decades. Elandrine accepted her proffered hand, helping her down. The elf shook her head, retracting her hand slowly.

“I don’t know a Demeter, but you look like my Deshanna.”

Demeter tilted her head, regarding Elandrine with a puzzled expression. “Persa, what are you on about? You don’t know your own mother?” The older woman reached out and, the way mothers do, put her hand against Elandrine’s forehead, determining her temperature. She shook her head once, and ran her fingers through her ‘daughter’s’ hair. “You are under some strange magic; I can feel it. A difference. It has been an uncommon day, Daughter. Come. Let us return home, and I shall endeavor to determine our little conundrum.”

Elandrine hesitated. She was alone in a strange world, without friend or weapon, and this woman looked like Deshanna and felt…well, trustworthy, she supposed. There was an aura of calm about her. Elandrine took a breath and took the hand that was being held out to her. Together, they walked through the growing twilight.

“What did you mean—”

“Hush, girl,” Demeter said gently. “I feel my brother is close, and I would rather avoid him, if possible.”

A bellowing laugh trumpeted from their left, some feet away. Demeter sighed, her shoulders visibly sagging, and she glanced over at a figure emerging from the shadows. He was tall, thick in the chest and arm, wearing similar robes to Elandrine, but shorter, stopping mid-thigh and crossing only over one portion of his chest. He had a beard that curled about his chin, with curls to match at his temples. His face, though clearly aged, was oddly youthful, save for the smile lines crinkling about his eyes.

“Zeus,” Demeter said blandly, not batting an eye.

“Demeter,” he rejoined merrily, his smile blindingly white in the coming dark. “And Persephone! How you’ve grown. Last I saw, you were barely able to meet my knee!”

Elandrine quietly stepped closer to Demeter, who in turn wrapped her arm around her shoulder.

“What do you want, brother-mine?”

Zeus, still smiling, somehow seemed less jovial. “Surely you felt it, sister-consort.”

Demeter heaved a sigh. “Do not call me your consort.” He held up his hands in apology, and she continued. “Yes, I felt it. That is why we are here and not home on Olympus. Persephone disappeared, and I had to find her.”

“My, my,” Zeus said, his eyes, at once the color of a storm and a cloudless sky, turning to bore into Elandrine. “And what was my daughter up to, I wonder?”

Demeter squeezing her hand was not the only sign to remain silent on the matter. The elf cleared her throat, and tried to seem as docile as possible. “I was…casting flowers for spring,” she said, remembering the flowers that had appeared behind her when she tried to cast magic.

“Ah!” Zeus said, slapping his hard stomach. “Yes, in the commotion, I almost forgot. Spring! No wonder you had slipped away.”

Demeter smiled at Elandrine, and she felt the knot in her stomach lessen slightly. What was she going to say to Demeter when they were alone? What was there to say? Hello, I’m from another world, I think, where I am an elf and you are an elf, and we live in a clan called Lavellan of the Dalish?

Yet, the more she wondered what to say, the harder it was to draw on her past. Demeter…Demeter had been important in the clan. Had she always been called Demeter, or was that new? And she was…who was she? First? What did that mean, again?

The ball that had formed in her stomach turned cold. It was slipping away, as if it had been a dream, yet she could—for the _life_ of her—not remember anything from this world either. She felt…empty.

As if sensing her distress, Demeter cut Zeus off mid-sentence about the ever-sweet scent of flowers. “Brother, we are weary for our beds. Can we discuss this, and what it was that happened, tomorrow?”

Zeus let out his boom of a laugh, head thrown back, completely abandoned to the guffaw. “Yes! That is what I meant to say. I am meeting tomorrow with our other siblings to discuss that burst of magic I felt.”

“Like a wave,” Demeter said softly, “crashing over all and sundry.”

Zeus nodded, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Yes, exactly what Poseidon said.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Have you seen Hades? I can’t find the bugger hiding any which way, neither in Hell nor Heaven.” When Demeter shook her head, he sighed. “Ah, tomorrow. We shall meet in our clearing—you remember the one, I trust,” he said, with a cheeky grin. Demeter colored slightly in the cheek and inclined her head once, not giving rise to his allusion to their past.

With another cackle, he was gone in a flash of violent light, leaving nothing but a scorched patch of earth where he stood. Demeter clucked her tongue in chastisement, and waved her hand. The grass grew where it had been scorched. Elandrine waved her own fingers at the spot, and a few flowers grew—daffodils, hyacinth and gladiolus. Demeter smiled at her daughter, and drew her under the shelter of her cloak.  

When the older woman removed it, they were suddenly standing in a marble room, cheerfully lit by a roaring fire beneath a large mantle. There were two beds in the room, and between them was a window, curtained with sheer swathes of fabric, letting stars peek through as they billowed in the soft breeze, carrying with it the scent of honey and milk. Exhaustion hit Elandrine like a slap to the face. She almost didn’t notice Demeter leading her to one of the beds and helping her down.

“We’ll speak tomorrow,” Demeter said softly as she wrapped her tenderly in the silken sheets of the bed. Elandrine nodded, her eyelids so heavy she couldn’t keep them up. With a soft sigh, she drifted off immediately. Here, her dreams were hazy, a mix of fantasy and memory, swathed in cotton. A figure stood off to the side, always hidden, unseen, but there, in the corner of her eye. If she hadn’t known better, she might have said he was calling her. Just before she woke, she saw a pair of lavender eyes, deep set, heavy with years and years, yet youthful.

Her mother’s hand woke her, sweeping softly through her hair. They were no longer in the room with the fireplace, but in the clearing where she had awoken the day before, surrounded now by flowers of all varieties, sun warm on her skin. Her head was in Demeter’s lap, and her mother was gazing upon her fondly.

“Tell me Persa,” she said, her voice a murmur of warmth. “Tell me what happened yesterday and what you remember.”

“Less and less,” Elandrine said, not wanting to get up. She was safe here. She was comfortable. The scent of fresh bread surrounded her, reminding her of home. She trusted the woman who held her, knew she loved her dearly. “It’s all a blur now. But I know I am not from…here.”

“Olympus?”

“Yes,” Elandrine continued, “if that is where we are now. I remember…you were the head of our family, but you were older.”

“I grow older as the year turns, my love,” Demeter said, gentle still, her fingers still running through Elandrine’s hair so tenderly.

“Yes, but you were always older. I…I do not think I was your daughter, though you very much acted like a mother to me.”

“But here, you are my daughter.”

Elandrine nodded, gazing up at the woman with kind eyes, the face of a mother. “Here, I am. I can feel that. It has something to do with the magic that spilled.”

Demeter sighed, her expression becoming cloudy. “I thought as much. I wonder if it is a curse upon us. Yet, the air hums like magic as it never did before. Never have I felt this power, this raw energy. Not since…” She shook her head, not completing the thought.

“Not since when, Mother?”

Perhaps because of the moniker, or the innocence in her voice, Demeter was obliged to elaborate. “Not since the Titans. Not since Cronus walked the land, and Chaos was the rule, not Order as your father has created.”

“Chaos,” Elandrine said softly. The word was…familiar. Cronus. A figure flashed through her mind, looming and dreadful. Her grandfather, here anyway. A beautiful beast who ate his children and filled creation, his wife, Rhea, with dread.

The knowledge was unbidden and somewhat shocking. Elandrine gazed up at Demeter and shook her head. “This bodes ill.”

“Hush, child,” Demeter said, not unkindly. She was gazing ahead, alert. She motioned for the young woman to sit up, and so Elandrine did. The air fizzled with electricity, and like a shot of blinding light, there suddenly stood Zeus, smoke seeming to curl up from beneath his feet as if he had, yet again, scorched the earth. His figure was larger than life—he filled up the whole clearing with his energy, laughing, male, volatile, yet with a sense of order. He was not necessarily _good_ , but he certainly wasn’t wicked or evil.

“Demeter! I see you have brought our lovely daughter.” He said it with a smile, but Elandrine could sense the warning—Demeter had not _asked_ to bring her, and that was a disrespect.

“If you like, she may return home. We were simply waiting for you and the others to arrive, brother.”

Appeased at being asked, he shook his head. “Nay, let the girl stay. She is old enough, is she not?”

Before another word could be said, the earth began to tremble. There was a noise unlike any Elandrine had heard before, and the earth split tumultuously. A man emerged, looking very much like his brother, Zeus, yet…wilder. His beard was not as kempt. His eyes did not convey a sense of order and justice, but…there was a touch of beast there. Otherwise, he might have been Zeus’ twin. That was how she knew he was Zeus’ brother, Elandrine justified to herself.

“Poseidon!” Zeus clapped his brother’s forearm in a tight brace. “Right on time.”

“Where are the others?” he asked gruffly, his eyes flicking only briefly to Demeter and Elandrine.

“Coming; Hera is fetching Hestia.”

“Has _fetched_ ,” a calm, feminine voice corrected. Out stepped a woman more elegant that Elandrine thought a woman had a right to be. She was tall, statuesque, with silver hair and golden eyes that gleamed. Her robes were crimson and gold, and the diadem on her head was so familiar. With her was another, just as statuesque, but softer somehow. Quieter. The same energy did not radiate from Hestia as fiercely as it did from Hera.

“Wife!” Zeus cried, grinning. “Prompt as ever.”

“Husband,” Hera said, inclining her head. Was there warmth in the tone, or was that anger? Elandrine could not tell.

“Where is Hades?” Poseidon demanded, folding thick forearms across his chest impatiently.

“I’m here,” a voice said, and it shook Elandrine. It was deep, smooth, like music. She finally understood what others meant when they said a voice could be silk—for his was.

“And where have you been? I could not find you yesterday,” Poseidon complained.

The figure emerged from where he had been reclining, unseen, against a tree. He wore deep grey robes, and they seemed to whisper as he moved. His skin pale, but with a golden tone to it. His face was chiseled, handsome yet detached. He was gazing over at his brothers, and unlike those two, had no beard, no curls atop his head. There was something very otherworldly about him—and so _familiar_. She had seen those eyes before.

“I…was not myself yesterday. Forgive me, Dirtha—Poseidon.”

“Yes, about that,” Zeus said, gazing at the newest addition to the group. “You and your niece were both missing yesterday.”

“Persephone was just preparing for spring,” Demeter cut in, defending her daughter. Elandrine remained silent, somewhat stunned by the presence of whom she could only assume was Hades.

A shiver ran up Elandrine’s back, and she turned her gaze slowly back to Hades. He was staring at her now, fixated, his gaze boring and intense. She swallowed, her heart fluttering. This was…new.

“—the magic was sudden.”

“Was it the Titans?” Poseidon asked, his voice gruff.

Hera shook her head, gazing over at her husband. “Zeus and I both checked on their restraints yesterday. They were untouched.”

“Stronger, if anything,” Zeus added, rubbing his chin through his beard. “I thought it might have originated in the Underworld, but Hades can remember nothing.”

“Like me,” Elandrine said, frowning. She looked again to Hades, and he was still staring at her. She swallowed whatever words she had been about to say. How could she speak under such a penetrating gaze?

“And the animals,” Demeter said. “I found Persa surrounded by enchanted wolves. If they could not get to her soon, I believe they would have begun to tear themselves to pieces.”

“Wolves?” Hera asked, frowning. “Has Artemis mentioned anything else about more woodland creatures?”

Zeus shook his head. “No, but I could not call her back from her hunt. We shall ask her upon her return this eve.”

Hades shrunk back slightly, frowning. Elandrine noticed, but tried not to stare. He was intimidating. She did was almost afraid to draw his attention, even if she craved it.

“I have sent Apollo and Ersa out to seek its epicenter. Dionysus is meditating on the answer.”

“What of Hecate, brother?” Hestia asked softly, her voice gentle and kind.

“Hermes is seeking her,” Zeus supplied. “I could not summon her. It worries me.”

“We will find the answer, husband,” Hera said. Zeus looked to his consort and nodded, his gaze serious.

“Until then, I recommend none leave Olympus without my leave.” He paused, then smiled. “Except, of course, Hades. You have a job to do, brother. We mustn’t forget that.”

“As you always seek to remind me,” Hades said, though his voice was patient, unperturbed.

“What of Spring?” Demeter demanded, touching her daughter’s shoulder. Zeus sighed and threw his hands into the air.

“Spring must come, of course.” He snorted. “Return by dusk each day, daughter.”

Elandrine, realizing they were speaking of her, nodded. “I shall.”

The gods were disappearing one by one. Her mother stood, looking up to the sky, judging the time. Elandrine felt a prickle again, and glanced back at Hades. He was the last to leave, and even as he faded into the shadow that surrounded them, his eyes lingered on her. It made her…uncomfortable, but she wasn’t sure if it was such a bad feeling.

“Come,” Demeter said, extending her hand to her daughter. “We have a few hours for you to work, and much to do.”

Elandrine took her mother’s hand and stood, yet still, she could feel his eyes, _watching_.


	2. The Seeds of Spring

Her mother had had to remind her what to do to urge spring in. It wasn’t enough to make the flowers grow; she had to waken the earth, which required significantly more concentration than simply urging flowers to grow. After an hour or so, Demeter had left her, telling her the way to Olympus lay within the desire to be there. All she had to do was will herself away, and she would be there. This meadow was sacred, and she would be safe from mortals—and immortals, especially as Apollo was occupied elsewhere. _You remember Daphne_ , her mother had said, tone disapproving.

Yet that wasn’t what on Elandrine’s mind. It was something Hades had said. When speaking of Poseidon, he had stumbled over another name. Dertha…Dertha-what? What was the second half to that name, and why did it ring familiar? She shook her head, sighing before singing a small song to the earth, ushering it awake with a gentle melody woven with magic.

“I wondered when you would get here.”

Elandrine spun at the voice, shocked she hadn’t noticed another. A young woman stood, leaning against a tree absently as she twirled a bow between thumb and forefinger. She was slender but obviously muscular beneath the short tunic she wore. Her eyes were a flashing green, and she did not seem particularly happy to see Elandrine. What was her name? Elandrine had to know, somewhere, in the recess of her mind. Andruil…? No.

“Artemis,” Elandrine said, her eyes unwavering. She felt decidedly unsafe. The goddess’s energy was wilder than her father’s, similar to Poseidon but…more unstable, if that were possible. Violent. That seemed…wrong, somehow. She was not meant to be violent.

Artemis smile was slow. “Quick learner. I’m surprised. But there had to be something about you, I suppose. Something to draw _his_ attention.”

“I don’t follow,” Elandrine said simply, not wanting to stir whatever anger was lying so obviously close to the surface of Artemis’s veneer of civility.

Artemis laughed at that. “Of course not. Let me tell you something, _child_. You may have gathered his notice before, but I swear to you, if you get in my way, I shall not forgive.”

The elf said nothing, unsure what she could say safely. She simply watched, ready to flee to Olympus if the other woman came near her.

“Nothing to say?” Artemis sneered. She stood up swinging her bow over her shoulder. “I didn’t think you would. Mind your steps.” The goddess of the hunt scoffed, shaking her head. “Not even meant to be here. You shouldn’t have been pulled in.”

With those cryptic words spoken, she stepped into the woods and was gone. Elandrine was left staring at the spot where she had disappeared. “Odd behavior for a virgin goddess,” she muttered to herself.

When dusk neared, she returned to Olympus the way Demeter had instructed her to do. There, she and her mother dined on something called ambrosia. It was sweet, overly so, and so a small amount sufficed. Her mother chatted idly about her day; the blessings she had bestowed upon man, how fond she was of a certain town, Eleusis, and was thinking of teaching its people some of her mysteries. Elandrine listened quietly, thinking back on her own day’s events. The night swept by peacefully enough, yet Elandrine could not shake a sense of unease.

When they awoke the next morning and broke their fast, there was word from Zeus. It seemed the forest, the very same Persephone had wandered alone in, where Artemis had threatened her, was where the disturbance had taken place. Hecate had confirmed that was where the magic was strongest—and not because Persephone had been ushering spring in there. She had sensed great magic, beyond even _her_ ken. Artemis had returned, and was now with Apollo, both seeking answers. Dionysus had seen nothing but smoke in his meditation, which unnerved him. He had agreed to stop all preparations for the Anthesteria, a festival sacred to him as Lord of the Vine, and to focus on divining with Hecate.

“Isn’t Dionysus the god of Wine?” Elandrine asked over breakfast, proud her memory was returning.

“Yes, but also of Spirit—spiritual ecstasy. He can help Hecate ground her abilities and divine answers.”

Elandrine nodded, not sure she truly understood. She finished her breakfast, and with the blessing of her mother, returned to her day’s duty of beginning spring. The morning passed uneventfully, yet when the sun was highest, Elandrine could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her. It was hard to push away, hard to focus on her song calling forth the wakening of the earth.

As she walked through her woods, singing spring into being, she saw ahead a field of vibrant yellow narcissus. Had she ever seen such beauty? It was the yellow of the sun—of spun gold, shimmering and sparkling like stars. She walked towards the flowers, enchanted. The air hummed thick with magic, but it was a welcoming sort of feeling—the feeling of home. She sat in the field, running her hands through the cool, dewy grass, and enjoying the pleasant smell of the flowers that surrounded her. It was impossible to ignore the growing desire to pluck these flowers, to braid them into a crown. She reached for one and tried to pull it free.

‘ _That’s odd,_ ’ she thought, tugging harder. It wouldn’t budge. Frowning, she stood to get better leverage. She tugged and pulled, struggled and fought with the beautiful thing, not stopping to question why it was so difficult or why she so desperately needed it. After several minutes of intense work, work that beaded sweat upon her brow, work that exhausted her until she was nearly limp, the flower finally came free. She stepped back, holding the thing in her hands, panting lightly. It was odd, she thought absently, that there was not a patch of earth beneath but a deep, dark hole in the ground. The longer she stared at it, the larger it seemed to grow, until she was standing on the very precipice of a vast cavern.

She felt the rumble of the earth, heard the stamping of hooves, before she realized what was happening. A chariot, larger than life, black as night, drawn by horses fiercer than any she had ever seen, rushed upon her, faster than should have been possible. A figure stood tall in the chariot itself, gripping the reins of the horses with purpose.

Hades.

Elandrine’s heart stopped in her chest for just a moment. His eyes, lavender, grey, blue, burned into her. His sensual mouth was a stern line. Before she truly knew what was happening, he was pulling her from the safety of the ground, lifting her in powerful arms and drawing her close against the strength of his broad chest. Broad and hairless, she corrected, becoming so intimately acquainted with it. His robes, after all, fell open at the chest, revealing the muscles beneath.

She knew she should scream, despite her exhaustion, especially once he cried to the horses and they began charging back down, down into the Underworld. She couldn’t. She couldn’t make a sound; all she could manage was to cling to him frantically as the darkness closed around them. They traveled that way for what might have been hours; in the dark, it was impossible to tell.

Once they finally drew to a stop, Hades stepped from the chariot, swinging Elandrine down with him, careful not to jar or hurt her in the process. Her knees felt weak, and she clung to him all the more tightly. She looked up at his face above her, but he was looking forward.

“Can you walk?” he asked, his voice smooth and deep.

“Honestly…I’m not sure,” she replied, her voice sounding as weak as she felt—thready, that was the word.

With a soft grunt of acknowledgement, he swept her up into his arms and began to carry her down what seemed craggy corridor. It was dark, but not black completely, with occasional torches lighting their way forward. They glowed with a soft green light, familiar and alien. Oddly, the darkness wasn’t oppressive or unnerving. It felt safe, welcoming, like sleep after a long, arduous day. She felt so secure, held to his chest, enclosed in friendly shadow, she actually felt herself close to nodding off, which was absurd. She was being kidnapped.

And yet she hadn’t resisted— _still_ wasn’t resisting.

Through heavy, sleep-hungry eyes, Elandrine looked up at her captor as he carried her further into the Underworld, further from the light of the sun. She wrapped her arms around his neck, causing him to glance down at her. His eyes lingered on her face, searching it.

“Do you…remember?”

“You’re not from here either, are you?” she asked, full of wonder. Perhaps she wasn’t as alone as she had thought—though Demeter had done a damn good job to make her feel at home here in this place.

One auburn eyebrow quirked upwards. His eyes…his familiar eyes did not leave her own. “How much do you remember?”

“Not much,” she said honestly. “It is slipping. I was from a clan. I had a home. Demeter—my mother here—was not my mother there. Her name…I almost remember her name. She was our leader. My teacher.”

“Deshanna,” he supplied softly. The name brought back a wave of memories. Old hands. Kind eyes. Nights spent by a fire, weaving magic and telling histories. A voice, parched like old paper, but warm.

“You’re from my clan?” It was a tentative question. She did not think he was, but did not know how to ask how he knew such things—and yet, he must be, for he was so familiar.

“No, I am not.” Without her notice, he swept her into a large bedroom. This looked much less like a cave, and more like a stone cabin. The bed against the far wall, adjacent to the fireplace complete with roaring fire, was large and inviting, covered in thick blankets and layers of fur. He set her down in the threshold, not carrying her beyond, but allowing her to walk. As he set her down, her knees gave and he wrapped an arm around her waist to steady her. She gripped his robes, and looked up at his burning eyes.

“Why do you know me then? Why do you know her?”

“I was your guardian,” he said simply. He helped her walk to a large chair, cushioned with pillows, and allowed her to sit. “You must be hungry,” he added, changing the subject.

“I am,” she admitted. “All they eat on the mountain is ambrosia. It is not very filling.”

Hades sighed, leaning back against a rough-hewn wooden desk. “I wish I could have prevented you from eating their food.” At her alarmed look, he continued. “It will not harm you, but it aids in the forgetting. The remembering, as I am sure Demeter would call it. Here, this will help you remember Thedas.” He reached across the desk and picked up a bowl full of what she had thought were small red jewels, glistening in the golden firelight. They were small kernels of fruit, exotic and tempting and _familiar_.

She reached for one, then hesitated. She looked up at him. “There is a trick here. Tell me.”

He smiled a little, and her heart leapt up into her throat. “You’re quick, aren’t you? Whatever tricks I am about are for your own safety; just a few will help you remember what you have lost.”

“But what is the cost?”

He shrugged noncommittally. Elandrine watched him from her spot, slumped, exhausted, in her chair—and she knew instinctively that this would be _her_ room. “How long will you keep me here?”

“Until I know that you are safe.” His eyes when they flicked to her again were cool. “You are important to me, and I will keep you protected.” He seemed to look past her, despite her coloring cheeks. “There is magic rampant here that I cannot source. We are not alone, you and I, from our realm.”

Suddenly, her exchange with Artemis came rushing back to her. “Artemis!”

Hades cocked his head, once again focusing on her. “Artemis?”

“Yes,” Elandrine said, almost breathless. “She came to me when I was planting Spring. She acted as if she knew where I was from—as if I was here _by accident_.”

“You were never an accident,” he replied smoothly. “We are both here for a purpose, you and I. I simply have not discovered it. I will speak to Zeus. While I am gone, I would caution you against exploring. The Underworld can be an…unruly place. I suggest sleep, and eat as many seeds as you can. Each one should unfurl a memory.”

“You still haven’t told me the cost.”

The god of the Underworld acted as if she had not spoken. “You will grow hungry soon enough. Eat your fill. Drink from this chalice here. It will summon whatever drink is your greatest desire.”

With a swirl of his robes, he was gone. The door behind him closed, then disappeared, leaving nothing but stone wall in its wake. Elandrine, not quite tired enough to not be startled, leapt to her feet. She stared at the wall, frowning. She walked to it, leaned against it, felt it with the palms of her hands until she was certain she had searched every inch. She had tried using magic to see if there was a spell she could unweave, but found nothing.

She collapsed onto the foot of the bed, legs dangling off the side, sure she had spent hours searching. She was so tired, so hungry, _so thirsty_. She turned her head, looking at the cup of fruit and empty chalice on the desk. Pomegranate seeds, she thought. What would Demeter think? Would she be worried? Was it nightfall? Had she been roaming the forests, looking for her daughter?

Her stomach rumbled softly, and Elandrine groaned, rolling onto her side, giving the bowl of fruit her back. She closed her eyes tightly and willed herself to sleep.

She couldn’t.

After who could say how long, she sat up with a heavy sigh. She glanced over her shoulder at the gleaming red seeds, glowing like jewels, tempting and sweet, tart and crunchy. She could almost taste them, and her mouth watered. Could she…could she trust Hades? He had said she was important to him. She believed him, even if she couldn’t place why. She scooted to the edge of the bed, leaned forward, reaching with deft fingers for the bowl. She snagged it, and pulled it into her lap. She sat there, legs crossed, staring at the fruit. One. One seed. It couldn’t hurt.

One quickly turned into six. Six seeds. She counted each one, eating them slowly, savoring the burst of flavor, the crunch of the center, swallowing them, pits and all. Hurriedly, before she could eat more, she returned the bowl to its place on the bed. Exhaustion hit her, and her hunger oddly appeased, despite the meagerness of the meal, she slid back onto the pillows of the bed. Sleep took her like a lover, fast and yet gentle. Dream awaited her—dream, and memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to move quickly as a story, and I apologize if any of the content is unclear. If you have any questions, please feel free to leave them in the comments, and I will either answer them in the next chapter, or in a reply.


	3. A Hasty Marriage

Elandrine slept, dreaming of the past—her past. Memories flooded her, her past, her family—lack thereof—and everything that had slipped away in such a short time. When she awoke, he was standing in her doorway, watching her, torchlight illuminating his silhouette. She pushed her heavy hair back from her face, taking a moment for her eyes to adjust.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked softly. He snapped his fingers, and the fireplace roared to life, allowing her to fully see him. He had a long cut across his cheek, raw and red and angry.

“What happened?” she asked, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

“I cornered Artemis, accused her of having knowledge of the event, as Zeus is calling it, and she carved her response into my cheek.” His voice was pleasant enough. He walked into the room, and the door disappeared behind him. He gracefully sat upon the cushioned chair, watching her all the while.

“Did you not get any information from her?” she stood up from the bed, her feet bare on the comfortably warm stone floor. She walked over to him, touching the cut gently. It healed beneath her ministrations, and, unexpectedly, he held her hand against his cheek.

“I did not,” he said, voice a half octave deeper. “Apollo came upon us and she slipped back into character. But I know who she is…just not how she did it.”

Trying not to blush at his grip, she watched his eyes—eyes she now fully recognized. “Who is she?”

“Andruil,” he said simply. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat.

“The…the goddess?”

“You remember.” His tone was satisfied, almost smug. “How many did you eat? No, don’t tell me.” He glanced back at the bowl, then turned to her, eyes glowing with pleasure. “Only six?”

Elandrine jerked her hand away, frowning. “So what if I did?”

“You’re mine,” he said simply, shrugging as if it was obvious.

“Excuse me?” Elandrine took a step back, regretting healing his cheek.

“You,” he said again, slowly, his eyes locking onto her own, “are mine.”

She shook her head, stepping further back. “No one owns me.”

“You’re very much mistaken,” he returned, tilting his head. “Demeter owned you before. She was your mother, and you were hers—you lived with her, and she looked after you. Now you shall live with me, and I shall look after you.”

“That isn’t the same as owning,” she said defensively. “And I don’t need you to look after me.”

He waved an elegant, strong hand dismissively. “Semantics. It becomes the same thing. Would it make you more comfortable if I called you my wife?”

Elandrine sat abruptly on the edge of the bed. “I’m not your wife. I’m your kidnap victim.”

Hades snorted back a laugh, shaking his head once. “In this world, it is the same. It is the epitome of patriarchy, and because I have taken you, and you have eaten of my home, you are now mine. My wife.”

The elf laughed once, staccato, and folded her legs onto the bed. She narrowed her eyes. “If I marry, I will decide whom.”

Hades shook his head. “I will not take advantage of you, if that is your fear. But it will be easiest for me to explain to others if you are my wife. I am going to protect you, whether you like it or not.”

“Protect me from _what_? Why have you been following me?”

“I could not fathom why you would be here, and so—”

Elandrine shook her head, cutting him off. “No. You’ve been following me, my clan, for years now. Don’t think I don’t recognize you. I do.”

Leaning back, Hades appraised her coolly. After a long moment of silence, he inclined his head. “I have been watching over you, yes.”

“But _why_? Why, Hades?”

He sighed heavily, leaning forward, his elbows pressing into his knees. “Please, call me Solas.”

“Alright; why, Solas?”

After a pause, he said, “We met once—”

A large crashing noise interrupted Hades, mid-train sentence. The walls shook, and the air seemed electrified.  There was another crash, and the walls trembled as if a giant hammer had struck them.

“ **HADES**!” The bellow belonged to Zeus. “HADES! Where are you, coward!”

Hades—Solas—sighed, his head rolling back and his eyes closing. He cracked his neck, stood, and walked to where the door had been. It appeared for him and opened. “Over here, brother,” Solas said, leaning one hip against the doorframe.

Loud stomping, and Zeus’ heavy frame filled the door. “Here you are! I’ve been summoning you!”

Solas sighed. “I have been trying to find answers. I only just returned home.”

“I was not summoning you about whatever the _event_ was!”

“Was it about Artemis?”

“Artemis? What? No, my _other_ daughter is fine. This is about Demeter and her Persephone.”

Solas stepped to one side. “You mean my wife?”

“Your—what?” Zeus blinked repeatedly at Solas, only looking to Elandrine when the god of the Underworld waved at her. Zeus stared at the young woman sitting on the bed, then looked back at Hades. “What have you done, brother?”

“I was in want of a wife,” he said casually. “And now I have one.”

“Of all the—!” Zeus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Demeter will not stand for this. You realize this?”

“She has eaten of the pomegranate— _my_ pomegranate.” Solas folded his arms across his chest, a smug smile slowly overtaking his sensual mouth.

Zeus lowered his hand slowly, looking between the two. He shook his head. “Demeter will not be happy.”

“She will be made to understand,” Solas said slowly. “Persephone is my wife. She ate of my seed, and now is mine. You know yourself that I need…companionship.”

“You do,” Zeus said, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully. “I have said this for a time now. But…Persephone? I understand your desire; she is beautiful…but also _young_. And you know Demeter—she is as devoted a mother as there could be.”

“She has other children.”

“Think of Spring—you must at least let her out and return to Olympus to bring Spring!”

Solas looked at Zeus dead in the eye. “Have Maia do it this year. I shall not be parted from my new bride.”

The burlier, bearded god laid a hand on Solas’ shoulder. “I do not begrudge you your desire, brother.”

Solas smiled at that, a touch sardonically. “I know very well _you_ do not.”

Zeus guffawed at that, shaking his head. “Well, she is _my_ daughter. You have excellent taste.”

Feeling a touch left out, Elandrine leaned forward on the edge of her bed, suddenly aware that her clothes, drapes really, were very transparent, and not the least modest. “Do I—”

Zeus waved a hand at her. “Not now, daughter; men are speaking.”

Elandrine sat up rigidly straight, her eyes wide. She inhaled sharply through her nose. Never in her life had she been treated this way— _because of her gender_. Of course, humans were this way at times, but never before because of how she identified.

As if sensing her discomfort, or perhaps genuinely offended on her behalf, Solas gripped the door and half-closed it, blocking Elandrine from sight. “I will continue my search for what happened tomorrow. I have arranged a meeting with Athene; however, tonight I desire to be with my wife. Alone.”

Elandrine could hear Zeus’ boisterous laugh again. Zeus congratulated his brother, said he would leave Hades to inform Demeter of the particulars, and in a searing flash, was gone. Solas sighed heavily, closing the door and leaning against it briefly. Elandrine took the moment to examine Solas from behind. It was an odd sensation. She had all of her memories of the world before—and yet, here, she had a sense of who Persephone was—knowledge of the gods and goddesses around her, and basic memory, almost like muscle memory. A sense of familiarity. She could tell whoever Persephone was had been intrigued by Hades. If she didn’t know any better, and she really didn’t, she might have thought Persephone was enamored of the god.

When he turned back, she quickly looked away, staring instead at the delicate hem of her garment. She didn’t hear his footsteps upon the floor, but heard the weight of his body settling upon the cushions of the chair once more.

“I apologize for this culture we find ourselves in, I do,” he said, breaking the silence that had settled over them. “I am sorry I must take advantage of it—but you are not safe here. Call it a suspicion. And I will protect you.”

“Why is it safer for you?” she asked, scooting forward. “I am a mage you know—not a Keeper yet, this is true, but I am adept at my craft.”

“I am aware.”

Elandrine frowned, looking at him. “That reminds me—you were telling me why you have been ‘guarding’ me.”

He was silent a moment, watching her with those intense eyes of his. It was distracting her, making it harder and harder for her to concentrate. One lip curled upwards in a half-smile, but it was not at all happy. “You _truly_ do not remember me? Not even seeing me like this—not as a wolf?”

Elandrine worried her lower lip with her teeth. She regarded him intently. There was… _something_. He stood slowly, and suddenly his garments changed from heavy black robes to green fabric, legs wrapped with leather straps, a linen tunic, simple, yet familiar, evocative of home. This, _this_ was familiar. Something stirred deep in her memory.

“You…I know you,” she said softly. “I can’t place it, but I know you.”

He smiled again, slowly sitting down, once more wearing the heavy robes of Hades. He crossed his legs at the ankle, stretching out as he regarded her. “You know…I do not think I shall tell you. I think I shall let it come to you.”

Elandrine frowned, leaning back on her palms as she stared at him. “That isn’t fair. You know, but I don’t. I feel like the power situation between us is uneven.”

“It is,” he said simply. “Incredibly uneven. There is nothing I can do about that, however. Besides,” he looked at her through half-lidded eyes, “I think you’ll remember soon.”

She became acutely aware that he was a very attractive man, and that they were very, very alone. She cleared her throat and abruptly looked away, staring instead at the fire. “How are we going to get home…?”

“I am unsure as of yet.” A pause, then, “I do know what brought us here had to do with the breaking of the Veil.”

“Is that what I felt?” She turned, once more looking at Solas. “The Veil has been weakening for months. Then, when I was sleeping, I felt…a burst. Like a bubble.”

He nodded, reclining thoughtfully. “Yes. I was exploring the Fade when suddenly there was chaos. I felt the spell being woven, but I could not bring myself out of the Fade in time—as if I was being held within it by a force of great power. Andruil, _Artemis_ , is definitely behind this madness, but I do not think she could have done this alone.”

Something suddenly occurred to Elandrine. “When I first met you here, you saw Poseidon—you were going to call him Dirthamen, weren’t you? Is he behind this as well?”

Solas shook his head. “They are all here—Elgar’nan, Mythal, Dirthamen, Sylaise—even June and Ghilan’nain. Zeus is Elgar’nan; Mythal is Hera, his wife…you get the picture.”

He hadn’t mentioned Fen’Harel or Falon’Din, but something else was bothering her. “Artemis…Andruil, she must have done this. _Must_ have. But why are you and I the only other two who are aware?”

Solas shook his head. “That _is_ the question. I have not yet encountered Falon’Din. I believe he  may be involved in this madness.”

“What of Fen’Harel?” she asked, but even as she finished the question, she realized—no, he was not the trickster god here—that would be...Hermes?—but Fen’Harel was very  much present. Had he not tried to trick her into eating the fruit that would trap her here? The air left her in a rush, and she slumped back. Solas was regarding her steadily, not grinning as she might have expected of the god of trickery, of mischief, but cautiously, almost as if he were worried about her reaction.

“It’s you,” she said simply. He nodded, but said nothing. The silence stretched between them until Elandrine could not stomach it. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“What would you like me to say?” his tone was careful, neutral, but she could see a sliver of vulnerability there, lying in his eyes.

“Why has Fen’Harel been following me, protecting me?”

“I told you,” he said, his gaze not leaving her face, “I want you to remember it.”

“But _why_ , Solas?” She used that name because that was the name he had asked her to call him. It was obviously important to him.

“Because it will mean more to me if you do,” he said, his voice softer than before. She chewed on her lower lip again, and felt a touch guilty. She was clearly letting him down somehow, and that bothered her. She couldn’t remember, not yet, but she also felt the need to distract them both from the cloud that seemed to be hanging over them. So she stood, walked to the table and picked up the bowl of pomegranate seeds.

“You must be hungry,” she said, and turned to face him once more. “You were gone all day.”

He watched her move gracefully, his eyes taking in every turn. “I am hungry.”

Elandrine set the bowl on the arm of his chair. “You should eat.”

Solas tilted his head, lavender eyes burning. “I would prefer it if you would feed them to me.”

The elf had to turn, her cheeks turning pink at the suggestion. She glanced at him, almost shyly, through half-lowered lashes. She had a choice here; be the shy maiden, rebuff and censure him, or…

“Very well,” she said, sliding into his lap. “As my husband wishes.” His expression of surprise was gratifying, to say the least. She picked up an individual seed and slid it slowly into his mouth. His lips brushed her finger tips, and a shiver rocked her spine, making her almost lose her nerve. Instead, she picked up another. After a few more seeds, she had to adjust herself in his lap to avoid a certain growing part of his anatomy. She wasn’t certain she was ready for _that_ just yet.

Suddenly, he stood, nearly knocking her to the floor, save for his arms cradling her, pressing her to his chest. Startled, it took her a moment to realize what is was.

“Stay here,” he said, giving her a small squeeze before he set off towards the door. “I shall investigate and return shortly.”

“Let me go with you,” she said as the door materialized. He paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder. He regarded her steadily. She had felt the strange magic creeping through the halls, only a moment after he had. Besides, taking her with him would have the added benefit of allowing him to keep an eye on her, to make sure nothing slipped past him. He nodded, holding the door for her.

Heart beating a rough tattoo against her ribs, she squared her shoulders and stepped through the portal, leading into the hallways of Hades’ realm.  

 


	4. The Singing

The elf walked side by side with the god, each silent, leaving no footfall to speak of their movement. Well, she supposed _she too_ was a god here—the goddess of spring with the incredible ability to create flowers and heal minor wounds. She could have snorted in derision. Such prestige. Yet, she shouldn’t be critical. She could feel there was much inside Persephone, much more than anyone expected. Elandrine sensed much would come of this Persephone.

Chasing the source of unfamiliar magic was difficult, to say the least. Every time they thought they were upon it, just around this next turn, this next corridor of the Underworld, it would vanish, only to reappear in a completely new location.

“If this dispersion wasn’t so randomized, I would say it was leading us into a trap,” Elandrine said, perhaps two hours into their search, exasperated. Solas nodded, glancing down at her.

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Do you recognize it at all, Solas?”

He nodded once, motioning her to be still a moment. He closed his eyes, and Elandrine could feel his own magic spreading out, seeking. It snapped back like the string of a bow, and he opened his eyes. “I do recognize it, I believe. I cannot be certain, however, until it is located.”

“Who is it?”

“Dirthamen.”

The god of secrets. The god of deceit. Elandrine swallowed, following Solas along silently now. What was she caught up in, this game of the gods?

As they continued their seeking, Elandrine became distracted. It was almost as if she could hear a soft song, far off, or deep below, she couldn’t tell. The longer they walked, the more certain she was that there was someone—something—singing, calling to her. She could tell Solas did not hear it; he was too consumed by the hunt. She would ask him later.

“I’m not sure I understand how this magic appeared,” she said eventually, breaking the silence. “I thought it was not easy to get into the Underworld.”

Solas looked at her askance, smiling slightly. “Normally, no, it is quite difficult—physically. Zeus can come and go as he pleases, without intruding upon me as he knows this is _my_ realm. Others, however, must take the ferry. Yet this is no physical presence. Simply a curious bit of invading magic.”

Elandrine nodded, trying to focus. The singing was growing louder. “Do you _hear_ that?”

Solas stopped, looking around quickly. “Hear what?”

She sighed. Perhaps she just needed sleep, or to eat a real meal. She shook her head. “Never mind. It must be nothing.”

Solas watched her quietly for a moment, but then nodded, moving forward. Once they rounded the corner, only to have this mysterious magic move again, Solas held out an arm, stopping her. “Enough of this,” he said, his jaw tight. He closed his eyes, and she could feel a great wave roll over her, making her skin feel alert, the small hairs on her arms stand on end. The wave did not seem to stop; it spread and rolled, and kept going and going, washing over her sensuously. Her toes curled and her eyes closed. A small gasp escaped her as the wave caressed her, pressing upon her like a lover. She leaned back against the rocky wall, unable to feel anything but this magic slithering over her skin like warm water. Her breathing was staggered.

Through the haze of pleasure, she was able to distantly realize what was happening. Solas was seeking the magic with magic; it might leave him momentarily vulnerable to a physical attack, but here in the Underworld, little could touch him. Solas was fast—his magic was smooth and quick and lithe, but this foreign magic was just faster. Elandrine let out a soft sigh, pleasure shivering through her still, and she let her magic spread into his. She heard his sharp intake of breath, and wondered if it felt as wonderful for him as it did for her.

It proved beneficial. Her magic was that of spring, growth, quickening, life. Rebirth. With her aid, Solas was able to overtake this invading force. He overtook it, surrounded it, and with a sudden snap of elasticity, drew it back to him. The energy flowing over her left in an instantaneous loss. She felt bereft, but there was too much happening to take notice. Her eyes flew open, and there he was, holding something eel-like, black and writhing and oily. Solas’ bright eyes were focused on the spell.

“What is it?” Elandrine whispered, feeling sick looking at it.

“A curse,” he said. “I believe it was meant to bring illness.”

“Illness?” Elandrine wrinkled her nose. “To an immortal?”

“To you.”

Elandrine jolted back, her eyes growing wide. “What…me?”

Solas nodded, struggling with the thing as it wriggled and writhed, slipping through his fingers only to be caught up again. “Yes. It brings decay, sleep, and frost. The antithesis of spring.”

“Can…can you destroy it?”

“I can,” he said, grinning fiercely as he fought with the curse in his hands. “I was hoping I could trace it back to the source.” His eyes flashed dangerously. “Can you deliver a message, little one?”

With movements almost too fast to see, he had twisted the thing into knots. He bent over it, whispering harshly, darkly, to the greasy curse. It shuddered violently, contorting into new shapes, twisting and turning over and over. It turned from pitch black to electric green—it morphed from slippery like spilled oil to slithering like a snake, dry and hissing. Solas gripped it tightly, tighter—tighter still. It let out a high pitch shriek and fragmented into a thousand pieces. They burst into bright green flame and burned up just as quickly, leaving nothing behind.

Panting, Solas leaned back against the wall, a wicked grin on his face. “Enjoy that, Dirthamen.”

Elandrine reached out and took Solas by the hand, squeezing it and threading her fingers through his own. “You should rest now. Come, _husband_ , let’s away to sleep.”

Breath still ragged, Solas grinned yet again, a wolfish expression. “While I would savor the chance to sneak to bed with you, I am afraid it is near dawn, and Athene is awaiting me.”

Elandrine’s heart sank slightly. She had been hoping for some time alone with him, but understood that getting to the bottom of this mystery was more important. “Our wedding is not even consummated, and already he flees to another woman.”

“A virgin goddess,” Solas added, his grin spreading at her playful tone, “might I remind.”

Elandrine snorted, smiling back at him. “Tell that to Artemis. She sounded almost jealous when she was haranguing me.”

Solas’ smile slipped slightly. “She may well have been. That woman has been hounding me ever since I escaped her the first time.” He looked away, jaw working, eyes lost in thought. Elandrine felt her spine chill slightly.

“Is that story true?” she almost whispered, eyes wide. “She…she tried to _force_ you into her bed?”

“She felt it a just punishment,” he added with a shrug. “She hasn’t quite ever truly understood the connotations of the word ‘no,’ you see.”

The goddess of spring felt her temper flare slightly. “That is rape.”

“I mentioned that. She didn’t seem to mind too terribly.”

Elandrine shook her head, feeling her throat tighten. “That makes me sick.”

“I told her I felt that way too. She may have slapped me—or perhaps that was after I laughed at the proposition. It was a long time ago, after all.”

“And she has been hunting you all this time?”

Solas nodded, grinning once again. “She chose an apt goddess, in a twisted way. She always did enjoy a good hunt.”

He stood up, linking his arm through her own and leading her back to her room—their room, she now realized. She had a sense it had belong to him well before she saw it.

“Do you think that’s why this has happened? Do you think that’s why she brought the Veil down?”

The god shook his head once, looking ahead. “No, no I do not. Not to bed me, anyway. Revenge, maybe. If I am being honest, I am surprised it is only Dirthamen helping her. They each have reason to be enraged.”

They reached the room, and Solas opened the door for her. She paused, watching him with eyes eager for knowledge, history— _his_ history.

“What did you do?” she asked, her voice so quiet he almost missed it.

It was hard to look at her, but he had to. He cupped her cheek, ran his thumb over the soft skin. “Fen’Harel did what needed to be done. And it has earned me the name of trickster and traitor—yet I would do it again. To protect the world, I would do it all again.”

In a habit he was finding very rapidly to be at once fetching and arousing, Elandrine worried her lower lip with her teeth. She was trying not to ask what it was, he knew. She wanted to give him time. He respected her restraint. He hadn’t, after all, been straightforward with her, had he?

“She would have destroyed the world, you see,” Solas said. “She would have destroyed it all. She sought the perfect weapon, an unceasing arrow—the slowest is not always the least deadly, you see.”

“Andruil?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice a breath. “Yes, Andruil. She would have destroyed the world in her quest. And so I sealed them away—I locked them behind the Veil where I thought they would remain, in peace.”

“Why? What was her quest?”

He took a deep breath. That was _the_ question, wasn’t it? He pressed his forehead to her own, his eyes closed tightly, as if he could hide from the truth. “To find and destroy _you_.”

Elandrine jolted, her heart leaping. “What? What do you mean? The Veil—I haven’t been alive that long. I’m only thirty-two. How could it be me? The Veil has existed for eons—centuries upon centuries, at least.”

Solas nodded once, stepping back, his hand slowly slipping from her cheek. “It has.” He sighed. “I will do my best to explain upon my return. I must go. Athene is not a patient woman.”

She grabbed his arm. “Don’t lock me in. I can’t stand it, being claustrophobic, like a bird in a cage. Let me explore, if I may.”

Solas regarded her steadily, but nodded. “If you can promise to not try to leave, as I would not you caught in the river, I will cast stronger wards to keep you safe. I shall only be gone a few hours today.”

Elandrine felt relief sag her shoulers. She thanked him with a kiss to his cheek, and she felt every muscle in him tense. He gripped her shoulder, squeezed it, fighting something inside himself, and then was gone in a swirl of smoke and shadow. Elandrine stood there, stunned, confused. What had he meant?

That would have to wait, she supposed, until his return. And she knew just how to occupy herself until that time. The singing, soft, insistent and _unceasing_ , was almost calling to her. She turned to the left, hearing it still. She would find it. She would discover what, exactly, was making that dreadful, insidious music.

With a steadying breath in her lungs, she set out, heading deeper into the darkness that was the Underworld.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a simple storyline laid out; I swear I did. A simple backstory, cute, easy, as to how they met, and then I had to go and ruin it all by making it silly and complex. Sigh. Ah, well. Maybe it will be a little longer than anticipated. This has become a full AU. Ah, c'est la vie.


	5. Lethe

The singing was almost maddening. It seemed the more she wandered these barren, stony walls, the more distant it became. After what had to have been hours, she pressed her ear against one of the many alcoves carved into the rock walls. She could hear it. She could hear it reverberating through the stone. She wanted to claw her way through to the sound. Exasperated, she threw her hands into the air and cursed.

“I wish I could just walk through this stone!”

Not even a moment after she said it, the seemingly impenetrable obstacle rumbled ominously. Small pebbles cascaded downwards, and the wall parted for her, a ragged crack, barely wide enough for Elandrine to slip through. She stared, wide-eyed, unable to grasp what had happened. After a moment of allowing her heart rate to slow, she tentatively stepped forward, hesitating just at its lip.

The music was clearer now, definitely far, but seeming to come from deep within. She held her breath. Was this smart? No. Was the music driving her mad? Maybe. Was she going to do it anyway?

She chewed her lower lip. Yes. Yes, she was. She inhaled sharply through her nose and headed into the crack. She was afraid it would close up behind her, but her fears, thankfully, were unwarranted. The path remained open behind her as she cautiously made her way forward—well, down really. There was definitely a downward slant to her path.

So she walked. She walked, and she walked, and she walked. Still further she walked. Another hour must have passed, and every minute the music had grown louder until it was a cacophonous crescendo, its notes almost _too_ high, just slightly off-key, like glass breaking in melodious chaos. It had grown darker as she descended, but the further down she went, there seemed to be a faint red light growing. Before her was a sudden turn in her path, and as she rounded the bend, the pulsing red light was suddenly shining brightly, throbbing even when she closed her eyes against it.

She held a hand up to save her vision from the worst of the pain, and once she began to acclimate, she peered between her fingers, squinting. The music, the light, it all seemed to becoming from this odd…crystal. If she hadn’t known any better, she would have sworn it was a form of lyrium. The air around her down this far seemed…tainted. It became harder to breathe. And yet, she could not make herself tear her gaze from the singing crystal. It was calling to her. Calling.

Her skin was crawling. She didn’t trust this feeling at all. She knew she had to tell Hades— _Solas_ —and did not know if she would be able to make her way back here. Perhaps it was instinct, or the Fates were working, conspiring, but she could not turn her back until she broke off a small piece. It took more effort than she had expected it to—it looked brittle, yet proved to be difficult to break. It was warm, sickly, like a fever, and she hated touching it. Finally, after trying to rip off a small piece from one of the slightest crystal growths, she picked up a rock and used it like a hammer until she had shattered one of the crystals. She picked up two shards, turned her back and made herself walk back up. It was one of the hardest things she had ever done, leaving that place. Part of her wanted to stay, and that alone was fuel enough to flee. Her steps were heavy, as if her feet had become lead. Her breath was thick in her lungs, as if she was trying to breathe through water. The crystals in her palm burned.

The further away she got, the closer to the crack in the wall, the easier everything was. Her legs were no longer moving through the air like quicksand; she could breathe and feel the immediate rush of oxygen; her head was clearer, and she could think again. By the end she was nearly sprinting, unable to put enough distance between herself and that disturbing cavern. She emerged from the crack, breathing heavily. Again, it did not close as she thought it might. In the distance, not too far, she heard her name being called. Solas.

Her throat was too dry to return the call, as if she hadn’t had a sip of anything to drink in days—she hadn’t, and yet, until she had gone down into that strange chamber, she had felt fine. Now, she was parched, and her lips felt chapped. She kept running, her pace slowing just slightly. The weight in her hand was too heavy. The crystals were scalding hot.

“ _Elandrine_!” came Solas’ deep voice, reverberating through the hall.

“Here,” she called, voice a thirsty snap of sound. His back was to her, and he was so far down the hall, it was improbable he could hear her, and yet, as if merely sensing her nearly instantaneous presence, he spun around. Before she could wave him down, he was suddenly in front of her, his arms and cloak enfolding her in a tight embrace. Some of the awful sensation slipped away as she was pressed against his chest in a force so strong, the breath left her lungs. Relief seeped through her, as if his presence alone could calm her erratic emotions. Elandrine closed her eyes, and let the relief spread through her lungs.

“I have been seeking you,” he said after the longest moment, his mouth and nose buried against her neck and shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him to reciprocate the embrace. “You were gone _hours_.”

The spring goddess breathed in sharply through her nose. “Hours?” Had she been trapped, enraptured, by the lyrium-look-alike for so long? She shuddered, but forced the feelings down, back into the pit of her stomach. “I found something.”

He let her go slightly, his hands moving to her shoulders as he pulled back enough to see her face. He was confused and concerned. “What do you mean? What have you found?” What could possibly have evaded his notice? In _his_ kingdom? What he could not realize was that this realm was now just as much Elandrine’s—had been since she had partaken of the pomegranate and become his bride.

“It’s maddening,” she said, her voice dropping, breaking, still parched. “Here, this is what I found. Doesn’t it look like lyrium?”

When she placed the two shards into his open palm, his face grew drawn, the brightness of his eyes changing somehow. His fingers closed over it, and his brow furrowed. “It does look like lyrium. I believe that is because it _is_.”

“What?” A chill ran up Elandrine’s spine.

Solas nodded, loosening his grip on her shoulder and stepping further back to examine the shards in the light of one of the torches. “These are lyrium, albeit a corrupted form—or so I think. I will have to examine it further to fully determine its characteristics.”

Elandrine worried her lower lip as she watched her ‘husband’ as he, in turn, watched the lyrium. After a moment of mustering her courage, she asked, “Is that part of what brought us here, perhaps?”

“There is little doubt in my mind,” he replied. “The magic surrounding it feels very similar to that which brought us here.” He suddenly sighed, and his hand slid from her. “I shall have to take this to Zeus immediately. As ignorant as that man is, his wife and one of his daughters are incredibly intelligent.”

“Only one?” Elandrine asked, an eyebrow raised.

Solas glanced at her again, a small smile on his lips. “ _Two_ of his daughters.”

“Let me come with you,” she said, not wanting to be left alone yet again, despite her exhaustion and how damn _thirsty_ she was.

“No,” he said shortly, his tone perhaps a touch too abrupt. At her startled expression, he softened. “If you leave my halls, Demeter will insist upon keeping you. She will not allow you to return. She…has not been easy to deal with. She threatened to freeze the world and create a never-ending winter until you were returned.”

Touching his arm, she drew his focus fully, his eyes finally leaving the tainted lyrium. “She cannot keep me. I wouldn’t allow it.”

In a fit of some emotion Solas was unable to contain, he grabbed her suddenly and pressed his lips to her forehead in a long kiss. When he broke away, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “I cannot have anything to you. I can _not_. Not again.”

Before she could say anything, before she could respond in any way, he had abruptly pulled her once more to his chest. He buried his face into her hair, his eyes closing tightly.

“Solas…” she murmured, unsure what was happening. “This…this has to do with how we know each other, correct?”

“We met in the Fade,” he whispered, voice harsh with emotion. “We met in the Fade, and you were the most beautiful being I had ever seen.”

Her eyes grew suddenly wide as realization hit her. “You! You were the spirit I met when I was twenty. We talked for hours…you shared your wisdom with me. That was you.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice a hiss. “It was me.”

She could feel his heart hammering against her own ribs, beating so wildly. There was more. They had spoken for hours, had met only once there in the Fade, but her Guardian wolf had shown up soon thereafter. She _knew_ there was more.

“That isn’t all,” she whispered, trying to search her mind for even the faintest trace of him. “That isn’t all to our history.”

“No,” he said, sounding genuinely pained.

“Tell me!” She tried to break free from his arms so she could see his eyes. She needed to see his face. “Tell me what else there is!”

“I _cannot_.” His heart was breaking, she could hear it in his words, but she could not understand.

“Why?” she demanded, desperate.

Finally, he Solas pulled back so he could search her gaze so fiercely with his own. There was a hunger in his face, a longing she could feel within her _own_ soul. It was terrifying.

“You would not believe me,” he said, doing his best to compose himself. She could see him building up a wall he had almost always erected around his emotions. She could see his eyes closing off, his face becoming a cool mirrored mask, reflecting nothing back at her.

“Try me,” she challenged, lifting her chin defiantly at him. “Don’t be a coward.”

He appeared startled, as if he hadn’t expected her to say that—to accuse him of that. He cracked a wry smile, his blue-lavender eyes glinting at her sharply. “No one has ever called me a coward before. Not in earnest.” He paused, chuckling. “Not in a long, long time, anyway.”

Elandrine broke free of his grasp, her chin still up, eyes burning with a brightness Solas was so eagerly drawn to—truly a moth to a flame. She would destroy him, as she had before, and he would burn joyously.

“Just tell me then,” she said. “Tell me how we know each other. Tell me when we first met.”

“It is too long a tale.” Solas shook his head. “I can feel the exhaustion in you, and I _must_ get this to Hera and Athene.”

“You’re hoping seeing it will waken Hera’s memories, aren’t you?” Elandrine asked, suddenly understanding. He nodded, his fist closing around the slivers tightly.

“I am. Come, I will see you to bed. You may rest, and when I return, I will have a tale to tell you.”

“I don’t want a tale,” she said, although she allowed him to begin leading her back to their chambers. “I want the truth.”

“And you shall have it, or as much truth as I hold in my memories.”

As they walked, side by side, Solas staring ahead as if he could not bear to look at her, Elandrine watched him. He was a trickster, or so the stories went, and she believed there was some truth to that—that he could lie when it suited him, and it might fool just about anyone. She had a feeling, a small thing, growing stronger in the pit of her chest, between her lungs, that she might be an exception to that. Or perhaps _that_ was his gift—unnerving and disarming you, so you would believe what he wanted you to believe. No matter how much she tried to reason some uncertainty into her mind, she could not make that small feeling disappear. If anything, the longer she watched him, the longer she was around him, the more certain she was that that feeling was indeed correct.

It took a surprisingly short amount of time to reach their bedroom, much to their mutual dismay. Solas saw her drink heartily and eat a little before he left, leaving her curled in bed. As sleep took her, and it did so very quickly, quick as a river, she could still feel the heat from the burn of that tainted lyrium, still feel its weight against the flesh of her palm. Unsettled and feeling alone, she was carried to sleep where she did not dream, but slept as if dead—dead to all the world around her.


	6. Ghil-Dirthalen

Solas held the red lyrium, keeping it from touching his skin by holding it firmly in the folds of his cloak. He had seen this once before, and knew certainly now that Andruil and Dirthamen were working in chaotic harmony together—there was no question. He grit his teeth in annoyance as he awaited Mythal—Hera—and paced the floor restlessly. He had to find some way to make her remember. He had to. He could not defeat these two alone. His footfalls were silent on the marble floors of the main hall.

The door opened, and he spun around, only for his heart to sink suddenly, his expression smoothing quickly to unreadable listlessness. “Athene,” he said, inclining his head. 

“Hera would like to meet you in her chambers.”

Solas kept his brow smooth when he might have frowned in perplexity. “What, pray tell, is wrong with the Great Hall?”

Athene's lips twitched, an almost-smile, condescending but patient somehow. “Too many little ears wandering about.” She paused, her smile becoming sardonic. “Isn't that right, Hermes?” 

There was the soft flutter of wings, and the boyish god stepped from some place he had been hiding. “You can't blame a boy for being curious. It isn't every day The Great Hades kidnaps Springtime and has clandestine meetings with our Queen.”

Athene rolled her eyes upwards, exasperated. “Do not get on Hera's bad side, Mischief. Her wrath is as mighty as Zeus' bolt.”

Hermes smiled coyly, slinking up to Athene in an overtly sensuous gait. “You know I can't resist being just a little naughty.” 

When he laid his hand on her arm and wiggled his eyebrows, Athene's face grew stony. “Do not touch me.”

Hermes threw his hands into the air in apology. “Can't blame me for trying. You know I also can't resist a bit of a challenge. Well,” he winked at Hades as he slinked out of the hall, “call me if you want to forsake yourvow of chastity. I have a long spear you might enjoy acquainting yourself with.”

Athene scoffed. “I am familiar with your little dagger. It's plastered all over Greece.”

Hermes' laughter echoed down the hall, heard long after he was out of sight. 

Solas inclined his head to Athene, taking his leave just as quickly. “Thank you for relaying the message.”

Athene caught him by the arm as he passed her in the doorway. “Be careful, Hades. Trouble is brewing like a storm on the horizon, and I fear it may be aimed your way.”

“I know it is,” Solas said, allowing himself a frown. “But thank you for the warning all the same. I know I can count on you to do what is right, always.”

“It is not always that rightness and wisdom intersect. But know I am on  _your_  side—so long as you stand for Olympus.” 

She gave his arm a small squeeze, and then allowed him to pass her. 

Not _largely_ unnerved, but still slightly unsettled, Solas made his way down the great halls of Olympus, to Hera's room. He moved to bang upon the door, only to have it swing open wide before he touched it. There was Hera, sitting elegantly, queenly, upon a lounge filled with cushions and pillows. She beckoned him inside, and he entered swiftly. The door closed behind him. 

“I have been waiting for you to seek my counsel,” she said, her voice the same silken rasp as it had always been. 

“Hera, I—”

She cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Call me by my true name, if you know it.”

Stunned, Solas' mouth shut with an audible snap. She remembered? Was this a test? He watched her, her eyes gleaming gold in the light of the sun as it streamed through her windows. 

“Mythal,” he said simply.

A sigh of relief left Mythal, and her smile was a slow curl of satisfaction. “I knew of everyone, it would be you to remember. Always so clever, my old friend.”

“Not so old,” he returned with a smile. He walked to her, sat on the edge of her chaise, his hands folding in his lap, the pieces of red lyrium still wound in his cloak, between them. “I am relieved you have your memories, and grateful you said nothing in the presence of the others.”

“What could I say?” Hera shrugged. “Elgar’nan does not remember our life before, and it would only cause chaos in this Olympus if half of its inhabitants were gods from another pantheon.”

Solas inclined his head. “I think it is more than half. Andruil is behind this. As is Dirthamen.”

“Have you seen him?” Mythal demanded, sitting up a little straighter. “I must admit, I expected him to be here, working with her, but I have seen no trace of our Keeper of Secrets.”

With a shake of his head, Solas regarded his oldest friend. “No, I have yet to see him. But I know he is here. I can _feel_ him.” He grew stern, remembering why he was here, and who was waiting for him back in his own realm. “I know how they got us here, however. I know how they broke the Veil and caused our two worlds to collide. I am grieved to think of what may have become of the elves—all of Thedas—without that Veil.”

Mythal tilted her head. “Go on; I am listening most raptly.”

He unfolded his robe, exposing the two shards of red lyrium. Mythal leaned forward, examining the lyrium crystals, frowning. She looked up at him. “I am not sure I understand. This cannot be lyrium. It is…sick.”

“It is,” he agreed, dropping a piece into her lap. “Be careful to not touch it with your skin directly—not if you can avoid it. It can infect even you—even I.”

Using one of the many drapes of fabric that sheathed her body, Mythal picked the thing up. “This…feels familiar.”

“Andruil has used it once before, I believe. I did not know what it was then, but…I think it was this that allowed her to…to…”

Mythal touched his arm. “I know. There is no need to speak of the painful things of the past.”

His lungs let out the breath they had been holding in so tightly. He nodded, grateful that she knew his allusion without needing further explanation. Even if Bellanaris had returned, even if she was in his life once more, a miracle that defied—or perhaps defined—Fate, it was heartbreaking to think on her disappearance, on how she could not remember him.

“What has Andruil done to this? Or was it Dirthamen’s work?”

Solas shook his head. “I do not know. I believe it was Andruil.” He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. “You remember when she was hunting? When she was gone so long?”

“Before _it_ happened, yes, I remember.”

He nodded, looking at the shard in his lap. “She was hunting something.”

“The Forgotten Ones, as the elves call them.”

Again, he shook his head, looking at her directly. “I think it was this. I think this is a weapon she—or they—or both—created. I believe this is what was used to shatter the Veil, to merge this world and ours.”

“Something in her plan must have gone awry,” Mythal added, her eyes staring and narrow upon the crystal as she tried to sense its properties. “I do not think we were meant to remember.”

“I do not think we were meant to be _here_ ,” he said wryly. “She certainly would never cast herself in the role of Virgin.”

Mythal let out a laugh. “No, not with how much she lusts for you. Ever since you escaped, she has been obsessed with conquering you.”

“I know.” His voice was dark, lavender eyes pained and angry. “She will stop at nothing until she has her conquest. No matter. We will stop her.” He leaned back slightly, breathing heavily. “Yet I cannot say whom we may trust. I do not know who our enemies are.”

The Protector and Mother nodded her head, dropping the crackling red lyrium onto the floor. “I do not know. This must be the taint I sensed growing in our family.”

“It is. Elgar’nan was always temperamental, but these last decades, his madness has grown tenfold.”

“Even Ghilan’nain,” Mythal said softly, her voice heavy. “Even in she have I sensed corruption. We must find a way to purge them.”

“Short of undoing time itself, I see no other choice.”

She leaned back, looking at Solas with her eyebrows raised in surprise and thought. “Undo time. Now there is an idea.”

“Mythal,” Solas’ voice was a warning. “Do not think I have not tried. I spent at least two hundred years attempting to undo what was done to Bellanaris. I think it would be more prudent to try and…cure the lyrium, for lack of a better word, and attempt to use it to take us home. Perhaps we will be in time to save those who await us there.”

Mythal’s jaw stiffened. “We will save them. Justice will be done. I will not allow any harm to come to our people and their children.”

“We must hurry—”

“I know the stakes,” Mythal hissed, “I know the Veil was the only thing that was preventing Blight from spreading through Thedas like wildfire.”

Solas swallowed. He thought of Elandrine back in their bed, alone, perhaps vulnerable. Who knew what it meant, the lyrium being so near her. He stood abruptly. “I must go. Please come tomorrow, after you have analyzed this to whatever extent you need. Perhaps have Athene look at it. Perhaps Hecate.”

Mythal smiled up at him coyly. “Eager to return to your wife?”

He let out a short bark of a laugh. “Such a small word to hold so much power. Wife. Yes, I am eager to be by her side. With Dirthamen missing, I do not trust her alone—and you know I cannot bring her here. I cannot protect her with so many variables. I think Andruil might snap at any moment and simply try to kill her again—and I do not have it in me to create another Veil to save the world yet again.”

“I know it diminished you,” she said slowly, “but did you not regain your power when it was broken?”

Solas flexed his hands and shook his head. “If nothing else, it has made me weaker. I believe this lyrium to be the key.” He took a few steps, then stopped, turning his head to give her his profile. “I want you to know how grateful I am for your help, throughout time. You are my truest friend, Mythal.”

She smiled at him, and it was not even slightly wry or sardonic. “And you are mine, Rebellion. Go. Make her remember you.”

His smile, in return, was the most heartbreaking thing she had ever seen. “If only I could.”

And then he was gone, a swirl of black cloak and a trail of smoke. Mythal reclined on her chaise once more, watching the spot where he had stood, then turning her eyes to the rough shards now on the floor. “If only Bellanaris was truly here,” she said to herself. “Now _she_ could help.” With a sigh, she set about doing her best to analyze what, exactly, this infection was—and how they might treat it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? I'm not supposed to re-write the lore to suit my own needs? What? I can't hear you. 
> 
> Anyway, this has become a full-fledged AU. Whoopa!


	7. Pyretós [nsfw]

She slept as if dead for a few hours, but eventually began to toss and turn, her slumber disturbed. She could hear that singing—that maddening singing in the distance. It wasn’t calling to her, not like before, but it seemed…well, it seemed almost as if it was crying out for help. Her dreams, during the wakening period, were hot chaos. She could feel the fire in her hand, burning brightly, burning her blood, burning her mind. She could see images, fragments. In those images, those flashes, she could see Solas—Fen’Harel—younger, infinitely younger, hot blooded, his eyes smirking always, his mouth always laughing, even when it was on her own—which was frequently.

She awoke in a fever, hot and burning, and covered in sweat. Something was wrong. There was fire in her blood—poison. Her hand—her hand was the source of the pain. She tried to focus her eyes on it, but that was so hard to do. She could not make her eyes focus. Elandrine used her good hand to grip her wrist tightly. What was wrong? Gods couldn’t get sick, could they? No…but they could be poisoned. They could not die, but they could suffer. Both of her hands had been burned by that glowing red crystal—that sickened lyrium—yet only one felt inflamed.

Since her eyes were doing her no good, she screwed them shut. There. Easier to focus.

The source of her pain was definitely originating from this hand. If she focused her magic, if she let her magic flow in through her arm, down into her hand, she could almost pinpoint the source. Elandrine had no idea how long she sat there, her magic seeking the source, but dimly she became aware that someone was speaking, someone was there beside her. It almost felt as if he was shaking her, as if this person was touching her forehead, urging her down onto the bed, but it was hard to tell. All she could truly feel was the pinpoint in her hand.

There. There it was. She found it. A tiny little shard, small as a speck, a mere glimmer of red light in her blood, had worked its way into the open burn wounds. Once she had it isolated, it was easy enough to latch onto it with her magic; easier still to urge it up, up, and out of the same wound it had burrowed into. Her magic surrounded it, held onto it as it exited her broken skin. Her magic was that of Spring, new beginnings, growth and life. Hades might have been the god of the underworld, but She—Persephone, Elandrine—was the goddess of new life. This little shard was sick with death and decay, and that went against everything Spring stood for.

And so, as she lay, almost comatose, her magic was working. That tiny shard, the tiny little speck of tainted lyrium, grew cool in her palm. Its sickly heat, full of fever and infection, became the cool touch of a spring morning, the first trickle of a stream that has been frozen from winter. It glowed blue and healthy and absolutely _sane_. The hand that held it grew cool, the fever leaving as the wounds healed. Somehow, she passed it to the other hand, and it too grew cool, the wounds healing with the freshness of spring.

She came too slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep or a dream she did not want to leave. Solas was perched beside her on their bed, leaning over her, his eyes wild, frantic. He looked like a man on the brink of losing something very important. When her eyes fluttered, and her breath came out in a soft sigh, he visibly relaxed, the lines on his face smoothing. He still looked harried, as if he had been through an ordeal, and that made Elandrine worry.

One cool hand stroked the side of his face. “Do not look so sorrowful, Solas.” Her voice was different, perhaps. Lighter, yet stronger somehow.

He held her hand to his cheek, his fingers sliding between her own. “Do not do that to me again. I could not take it, to lose you once more.” He turned his face in her hand and kissed her palm. His lips felt warm against the new coolness of her skin. He was the one who felt feverish now—hot, riled, but that seemed to fit him. He presented a cool demeanor, unruffled and unmoving, but the truth was more complicated than that. The god of Rebellion burned hot to his very core; Elandrine somehow knew this.

Her thumb traced his full lower lip, enjoying the softness there. Her breathing hitched. They were so close; one of his arms was pinning her down as he leaned over her, and if she breathed deeply, her breasts brushed against him. She became suddenly aware that her body was perhaps _not_ as cool as she had thought it was. There was an answering spark inside of her, one that grew wild when near Solas’ own.

Without warning, his tongue tasted her thumb, hot and wet, but not too, just a small taste of her skin. Unable to stop herself, not certain if she wanted to, her fingers were digging into his cheek, drawing him down. He didn’t need much prompting. His mouth found hers eagerly, his lips firm, yet silken and warm. Everything felt warm, his lips, her skin, their tongues together…this was madness, but the kind you welcomed: a fit of passion, a midnight dance, the crescendo of a frenzied piece of music.

Her hands slid from his face to his neck, to the collar of his cloak. She pulled at it, needing more skin, more flesh. His teeth were pulling just as eagerly at her lips, plumping them with his unruly passion. When she began to tug at his clothing more earnestly, he broke the kiss, his breathing audibly ragged. He pulled back, his chest heaving, unrestrained, his eyes wild, crazed.

“I cannot,” he managed to say, voice strained. “It is not right—you must know everything first; it is too close to a lie. You must know—you must decide what you want.”

Sitting up and thinking rationally as not something Elandrine particularly wanted to do at this _exact_ moment in time. Her magic was buzzing high, and she could tell they were both a little drunk on it. Spring. New life. Awakening.

“You don’t get to make my decisions, Solas,” she said, somehow managing to form words through the desire. Her magic demanded Spring. She _was_ Spring. Denying her nature would be akin to denying a storm its rain, the sun its heat.

“That is precisely my point,” he said, eyes roaming, never settling on her. He would give in if they did.

She moved towards him, hearing his sharp intake of breath, feeling him retreat defensively. “I know what I need to know in this moment.” When he would have pulled away, she took his face into her hands, his cheeks which bore the soft red marks of her nails, and gently but forcibly brought his gaze to hers. “We have a past I do not know, perhaps. Another life I have no access to. And that doesn’t matter. What has passed is the past. In this moment, in this life and this body, I am choosing you. I know who you are. You know who I am. I am choosing you if you will choose me.”

His eyes searched hers. She was serious, and that surprised him. He had been so sure she was overtaken by the intoxication of her own magic, but clearly he had misjudged her; she was stronger than he had anticipated. Wiser, too. Perhaps wiser than he himself was, his Pride allowed him to admit. Not pride—here in Olympus, it was hubris, wasn’t it? Perhaps he ought to trust her more. It was easy to see her as young, but she was a goddess too, was she not?

She was waiting for an answer. He had taken too long, searching her eyes, searching his heart and soul. How could he say the words? What words were adequate?

“I choose you,” he said, leaning into her again. “I will always choose you. I always have.”

Again, their mouths met in a burning kiss that set their blood alight. Tinder to the flame. What had started as a spark grew into a wildfire. Their clothes were shed—hers easily pushed aside; his more sloppily discarded. The heavy cloak crumpled to the floor, followed by a heavy grey robe.

Eventually, his mouth left hers in favor of tasting her body. Her skin was sweet, like fresh cream swirled with honey, strawberries and blackberries mixed, ripe and tender. Her nipples responded under his tongue, growing taut and hard and just as eager as he was. He wanted to take his time. He wanted to drive her into a frenzy. He wanted to give her such pleasure as she had never known—

“Solas,” she gasped, her body arching beneath him. “I cannot wait! There is a fire in me—I need you now. It must be now!”

It was all he could do not to take her then and there. Shaking slightly, his hands gripped her thighs, but they parted without his urging. He stared down at her exposed sex, glisteningly wet, enticing him. He swallowed hard. “I must…I must make certain you are ready.”

“I am _ready_ ,” she said abruptly, wrapping her legs around his waist, urging him downwards. “I may go mad if you do not _hurry_.”

He wanted to laugh, but he could not, for he was breathing too raggedly. May go mad? They were both consumed by madness. Spring was in the air, and he had never felt so alive. He had never been this eager—not with Bellanaris, not in the Fade, and certainly never before her. He had known passion; he and Bellanaris had scorched the heavens themselves, but Elandrine…nothing could have prepared him for Elandrine.

When he finally pushed and slid inside of her, he was unsure what to expect. Would it feel the same? Would she feel as she had before? He had just enough clarity of mind to realize that, no, she did _not_ before all logic fled, and the capacity for thought was beyond him.

It was a tight fit for the first few thrusts, but quickly Solas was moving inside her with as much ease as a man whose heart was hammering against his chest like a bird trapped in a burning cage could manage. Their bodies urged each other on, moving together in a blended harmony as a composer building to a chaotic climax. They moved together, each complementing the other. When he pushed his chest up and off of hers, getting a deeper angle inside, she moved with him, her lips trailing kisses across his collarbone, teeth leaving small nips, indents in his skin. Their hands were never still. Her nails dragged across the broad expanse of his back, and his nails dug into her thighs, her buttocks, her arms. At one point, his teeth had latched onto her shoulder, and he was pounding into her like a rutting wolf in heat.

There was a feeling building inside of her. He was just the right length, the right thickness, and he was hitting that spot inside, the one that was so indescribably delicious. His fingers sliding between their bodies and, with very little instruction, finding her clit, was an added bonus—one that pushed her over the edge of _building to_ a sensation, and directly into climaxing. Her entire body bucked with the force of her pleasure, and she let out a long, deep moan that left her panting profoundly.

Just as she collapsed back against the bed, shuddering as her orgasm ebbed, he pinned her down and thrust inside her one last time, gasping and cursing and shaking as he pumped himself into her. His arms trembled, and his thighs were shaking, and it was all he could do not to crush her with his weight as he continued to drain into her.

_Spring_. Blearily, Elandrine felt rather like a rabbit. She had never, not once, in her life ever needed someone that way as she had needed Solas. She watched his face, her breathing returning to normal, watched him as he came, his brows furrowed upwards, eyes rolling back and then closed, jaw tight and tense as his entire body wound up like a coil, only to pour inside her. She could feel him trembling, and wrapped her arms around him. Once he had finished, she urged him down beside her with her legs. He collapsed beside her, his arms tight about her shoulders. She was surprised, and not displeased, when none of their joined lovemaking spilled out of her. Distantly, she thought that was one less mess to clean—if she could be careful.

But she could deal with such things later. Now, she nuzzled into his chest, smooth and strong and slightly dewy with sweat. She looked up at him, safe in his embrace. His eyes were still closed, and he was breathing heavily through his mouth, though she could feel his pulse slowing. She ran her fingers along his jawline, and waited for him to recover. Once he had, a little, she asked, “Will you tell me of our history now?”

Solas sighed, and he opened one eye a crack to look down at her. All he wanted to do was hold her and rest, perhaps sleep a little—and he for once felt he might be able to—but that could wait. He had promised her answers. He had promised her the truth, and after all she had done for him, what else could he do but acquiesce?

“The truth,” he said softly, his voice urging Elandrine’s body to relax, “the truth is that we met, many hundreds—thousands—of years ago. We met, fell in love, and I have been looking for you ever since I lost you.

“It is a long truth, but if you close your eyes, I shall tell it as clearly as I am able.”

Elandrine did as he bid, closing her eyes as he began to weave images in her mind’s eye of what had happened, so many eons ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...I apologize. I don't know what came over me. Ahem. The next chapter shall feature the story of how our two heroes met in a previous life. ლ( O ◡ O )ლ


	8. Alítheia

Solas leaned back, getting as comfortable as he could. He was perched on their bed, reclining against perhaps four pillows, Elandrine resting her head against his chest. He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, savoring the fact that he could touch her—he could run his hand along her skin. That fact alone was almost more intoxicating than sex—but he had to focus.

“I was young when we first met, not in age, but in spirit. Young, wild, and more reckless than I care to recall.”

 

**Ɵ**

 

Fen’Harel had never chosen his own name, but now that he had it, he supposed he ought to use it in the spirit in which it was given. That was why he sat, hidden in the dark branches of a tall tree, waiting to answer the…well, calling it a “prayer” was a blaspheme not even _he_ would commit, so he supposed it was a “summons.” He wasn’t prayed to often, but when he was, it was usually something petty—something that left an ashen taste in his mouth. Being prayed to at all was sour enough, but adding insult to injury was enough to make him want to live up to his reputation. On occasion, people genuinely needed his help, and he would supply it, but usually his days were like today—spending it teaching lessons.

But what had caught his attention today? A young elf, not even ninety, had prayed to him, prayed and prayed and prayed, for hours—it had been quite tedious—begging for his help. The quandary? He had not been able to woo a young woman successfully, had prayed to all the other gods for advice, had received none, was at his wits end. He had done everything, _everything_ , to woo her and gain this beauty’s favor. And so what did he desire of Fen’Harel?

He wanted a way to _trick_ her into loving him, laying with him, if only for one night.

Fen’Harel was, at times, deviant, but never _evil_. So what was his current plan? He was going to make the lad, Mythran, fall in love with a halla. It wasn’t a powerful spell, but he would need a few things from the boy’s life to accomplish it. He would need to see him, see his face, and see the face of his beloved, and then pick a halla the boy had recently touched. All very easy. It might last a week, perhaps more depending on how great his desire for this girl actually was.

And there they were. He could hear their approach. Mythran had asked this girl, someone named Arlassa, to meet him in this particular spot to be given a present. Or so she thought. Mythran thought that Arlassa had asked _him_ here, and probably assumed his prayer had been answered.

Arlassa arrived first, her eyes wide, an electric blue. She was perhaps perplexed. It occurred to Fen’Harel she did not truly know that Mythran was in lust with her. She was just as young as the boy, maybe a decade older. Her hair was a fine gold, wavy as a river, and her skin was rosy. He could see why the boy desired her, he supposed, but not to the extent to pray for _seven hours straight_ —

Oh, there he was. Mythran came next, blushing and stumbling over himself. Fen’Harel sunk lower on the branch. Mythran approached Arlassa, eagerly reaching out for her. Startled, she began asking why he had wanted to see her, which only confused the boy. It didn’t matter. Fen’Harel did not listen to what they were saying, but how they looked next to one another. The boy was taller, darker in coloring, his eyes a charming shade of raw earth, bright with lust. Good. That was all Fen’Harel needed—here, anyway.

He slipped quietly from the clearing, moving soundlessly from tree to tree. Once he was far enough away to remain unnoticed, he jumped onto the forest floor. He wore the clothing of the lower class: a hooded cloak, leather wrappings on his legs, a simple tunic. If he truly wanted to pass unseen, he would don the markings of Mythal upon his face, but he did not expect to be here long. The encampment he was visiting was peopled mostly by halla herders, with a smith and a leather worker or two. The boy, Mythran, was the son of the smith and the village’s healer. They kept a few halla themselves, which made Fen’Harel’s task all the easier. He would pick one of their own.

The village, if it could be called that, was bustling. They did not live in trees, nor floating castles in the sky—these people were of the earth. They made their homes on the ground, nestled between the trees. They weren’t the poorest elves; they were not slaves. Some of the others might call them “devouts,” but he knew better. He knew what the vallaslin truly meant.

He was muddled in such thoughts when he entered the village. It was bubbling today, bursting with life and activity. They were preparing for a festival the coming week; the halla were in season and would begin giving birth soon, so bakers were out selling their halla cakes and cookies, braided loaves of bread to resemble antlers; some of the growers were out advertising their fresh fruits—apples, berries, some citrus at one stall. Weavers had set out vibrant woolen cloaks, hemmed with colors red, green, orange, all to celebrate the coming of the new generation of halla. Some minstrels were out, playing some flutes, one a harp, another singing praises to Ghilan’nain.

Fen’Harel walked through the dirt paths, taking it all in. People were living their lives, unhindered, unfettered by conscious and power and intrigue. It was fascinating to him. He plucked an apple from a stall, leaving behind a rune of blessing as payment. Though he had never been here before, he knew the streets, knew where to go. He left the apple core on a windowsill, turned down the next alleyway, and saw his destination.

It was a small dwelling, just beyond the rest, somewhat secluded. They clearly respected the healer. She would be in the village now, as her husband would be in the forge. Mythran had a sister, but Fen’Harel hadn’t bothered to learn about her. Apparently, she was gone most days, and that was all that mattered.

Curiosity had him peering through the front windowpanes. A normal home by the looks of things. Furniture, a few items of luxury here and there—artwork, extra food, a musical instrument. There was a staff resting against the far wall of the entrance way, so he assumed this healer had multiple. Pleasant. Plain. Boring.

He slipped around to the side of the house, then out the back where they had three halla grazing. These had been gifts to the healer, apparently, for saving three women going through difficult labor all in one year. The halla weren’t penned; they did not do that. But they knew this was home, and loved the family that served them. Or something.

He held his palms out, walking slowly as he approached the halla. One looked up from where it was grazing, ears twitching slightly. Fen’Harel continued to approach softly, hands spread, radiating peace and welcome. The halla watched him a moment, then dipped his head back to the grass. That would be the one, the one who had lifted his head in curiosity. It had spunk.

Fen’Harel ran his long fingers across the animal’s back. Its white fur shimmered as he ran magic through it, beginning to craft the spell. It wasn’t a complicated spell—there were plenty more that took years of focus, of preparation, of casting—but it did take concentration. He had to weave the images from his mind silkily into the fur. It had to be perfect, or it wouldn’t work, and then how would Mythran learn his lesson?

It only took a few minutes, but he was completely entranced by his spell—which is why he was so surprised when he finished, turned, and saw someone leaning against the back door of the home, watching him while peeling apples. Her head was cocked to the side, and her dark brown eyes were the same as her brother’s—for who else could she be? She seemed older than Mythran, and even from here, he could feel the magic that radiated out of her. She was beautiful, and her smile really quite charming.

He put on his own smile and approached her slowly. “ _Enansal_ on this day before the festival,” he said, pitching his voice low, knowing the effect it had upon women.

“I would welcome you, but you seem to have welcomed yourself.” Her smile broadened, and she set the apple down, but not the knife, a fact not lost upon Fen’Harel.

“Oh, that? I was just greeting your halla—”

“I know what you were doing,” she said, interrupting his lie of omission. “Laying a spell. Not dangerous, but powerful. I could feel your magic from inside.”

He grinned unabashedly. “You must have some talent to feel the magic I made.”

“Not anything spectacular,” she said with a shrug. “I’m sure if you had taken the time to set a barrier, I wouldn’t have noticed. But you didn’t.”

“I didn’t imagine I would need one.” He eyed the small pile of apples she had resting on the windowsill. “What are you making? Some baked good?”

“I shall be pressing these for cider later.” She looked at him intently, one eye squinting against the sun. “You’re a stranger here. Did you come simply to lay a curse upon my brother, or was there some other nefarious deed you have planned for my small home?”

It was difficult to hide his surprise, but he managed to keep his face simply grinning. “Against your brother? Why would I do that?”

“ _Ma harel_ ,” she chided.

“No,” he corrected, “I never denied its aim. I simply asked why you think it’s aimed at your brother.”

Rather than answering his question, she posed another: “ _Garas quenathra_?”

He motioned behind him with a sweep of his arm. “You have caught me out. That was my entire purpose of visiting your small settlement.”

“Yes, but how did you come?” She cocked her head to the side, and a wealth of hair spilled down her shoulder. “There are barriers in place all along the circumference of our homes. You shouldn’t have been able to enter uninvited. So, unless someone has asked you to come specifically to jinx my poor brother, I ask again—how did you get here?”

Watching her, he could see her eyes were just as bright as her brother’s, but hers shone with intelligence, a fierce spark of will. Determination. He was suddenly very glad he had come. His grin widened. “But I _was_ invited here. By your brother, no less.”

The woman looked startled, as if she had been slapped. “By my brother?”

“I am not lying. He asked for me, specifically.”

Watching her face change from confusion, to intense thought, to slow realization was captivating. She was bright. Perhaps he would stay an extra night here after all, even though he had planned to leave immediately.

“You can’t be.” She shook her head. “The only person my brother invited here was Fen’Harel, and there is no possibility of someone of his magnitude coming to a small settlement outside of Arlathan simply to spite the ignorance out of a child.”

Fen’Harel laid a hand to his chest as if he had been wounded. “Do you think I would come all this way to, as you say, ‘spite the ignorance out of a child?’ Actually, I truly enjoy the way that sits on the tongue. I may use that in the future.”

The face she made was disgusted. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You actually are Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf—”

“I do prefer not to be called _that_ in particular.”

“—and you _truly_ came here simply to spite my brother. Why? Because he dared ask for your help?”

Narrowing his eyes, he rocked back on his heels to look at her steadily. After a moment’s silence, he asked, “do you know why he called upon me?”

That startled her. She thought for a moment, and then shook her head. “I suppose not. I only heard him saying your name over and over for several hours.”

“Seven. _It was seven hours_.”

It took a good deal of effort, he could tell, he could see her lips curving, but she managed to not smile. “So you’re spiting him for annoying you?”

He grinned again, his white teeth showing wide. “While that would be perfectly petty, and possibly what is expected of me, that is not the reason, no. I’m here to teach your brother a lesson—simple, but I hope effective. When your darling younger brother—”

“Older,” she corrected.

“Older?” he repeated, startled, eyebrows raised.

“Yes, he is twelve years my senior.”

Smile perfectly back in place, Fen’Harel tilted his head, regarding her. “My, there is more to you than meets the eye, isn’t there? Well, as I was saying, your _older_ brother was asking me for a way to trick a young woman into falling for him—only for a day or so. Just long enough to get what he wanted out of her.”

Her eyes grew large, and her jaw snapped shut, biting off whatever clever retort she had planned. If he hadn’t known better, he would have said he felt a spike in the energy surrounding them both, but that was not possible, not from someone so young. She opened her mouth once, and then snapped it shut again. She shook her head, looking past him and at the halla. “Can you bespell all three?”

Now _that_ was unexpected. Fen’Harel let out a startled laugh, genuinely and pleasantly amused. He shook his head, not to answer her question, but in disbelief. “Now that would be something, yet I think one shall suffice.”

She was shaking her head as she stared angrily out at the forest. “That small-minded…I will have a discussion with him later about the merits of consent.”

“I hope he learns!” Fen’Harel said, heartily meaning it. “If he does not, perhaps my little trick will teach him.” He watched her, curious. It had been some time since someone surprised him. In a positive way, at least; he found very much that nearly every day brought surprises of an unpleasant nature—Andruil accusing him of something, some person demanding he do something terrible to another over a petty disagreement or perceived slight. It was exhausting. Yet this young woman here gave him a bit of spark he had not felt since…well, since he could remember.

“What is your name?” he asked. He hadn’t bothered to learn much about the boy’s family, and he was sorely upset with himself for not doing so.

“Bellanaris,” she said, offhandedly.

“Bellanaris?” he repeated, again surprised. She smiled and shrugged.

“My parents have always been dramatic. My mother always said she sensed something when she was pregnant with me—some powerful magic inside of her. She said her magic had never been more potent than when she was pregnant.” She shrugged again, obviously embarrassed.

“Well, _Bellanaris_ ,” he pronounced her name slowly, dropping his voice again, a deep and rough velvet slowly dragged along the skin, “will you show me this festival your village sports?”

She accepted his arm when he offered it, but her smile was coy, knowing. “Does that work for you often—when you do that to your voice?”

He beamed innocently at her. “Do what?”

Laughing, unafraid to be in his company, unembarrassed to be herself, she led him to the village to show him the festival.

And that was how it began.

He came back often, more often than he should. He said it was to check on her skill as a mage, to see her talents develop, to help her become the best she could be—but he knew, deep within his heart—that he was lying to himself. At first it was curiosity; she was different; she surprised him often. He enjoyed the novelty of it. He grew, rather quickly, to enjoy her company for its own sake, even after he learned the color of her character, the quirks and puzzles of her personality. She challenged him freely and without hesitation.

Her power grew as the decades passed. Eventually, he took her to Sylaise. Bellanaris had a talent for healing, perhaps from her mother, but exponentially more powerful. Sylaise, always generous, had been impressed with the woman’s abilities, and taken it upon herself to tutor the elf from time to time. Ghilan’nain had even been impressed with Ballanaris’ ability to grow.  

It was another fifty years before they had kissed—well, until Bellanaris kissed _him_. They had been weaving a spell together, had been working for days, singing magic into being and creation, attempting to create a new kind of barrier, when she, rather suddenly, had broken both their concentration by leaning forward and kissing him with no warning. It had taken another five years for them to actually consummate their love. But when they had…oh, the magic they created. Fen’Harel had never heard the music of color before that—had never seen the color of melody and harmony displayed as watercolor before his eyes.

He had never, _never_ known happiness like this. Solas, his name from before he was Fen’harel, from when he had been truly young, before he was a god, should have known it would not last. But he was blind. They would often spend weeks apart, time he would forever lament as lost once she was gone, and he never thought twice about leaving her alone. She was powerful—so powerful, it seemed as if she might join him in the pantheon. She could turn a barren field into a lush crop in mere weeks of weaving magic. With continued study, she could get it down to days—perhaps even hours. Her talent to bring life was unerring. She was becoming seen as the goddess of Land and Harvest, of Childbirth. At least, there were whispers of such. That she had an ancient spirit, reborn time and again, accumulating magic with each passing incarnation.

Solas, as he again preferred to be called by those who knew him, by _her_ , he _knew_ her soul was ancient. He could feel it when he breathed her smell, could see it in her eyes. He could taste it in her mouth. If it hadn’t been for Andruil, he would undoubtedly have married her—Rebellion and Harvest, working together. How things would have been, if only she had not destroyed everything. If only he had seen sooner.

It was no secret Andruil wanted him. He had egged her on, had deliberately harassed and tormented her. He had to live with that every moment of every hour of every day of his life. He was, partially, to blame. If he had been less blinded by his passion for Bellanaris, and more interested in Andruil’s disappearance, in the way Dirthamen, Falon’Din, Elgar’nan began to change—even Ghilan’nain was different—then he might have been able to prevent what happened, with Mythal and Sylaise’s help. If he had been able to be enough to hunt, if he had engaged her more, so she had not needed to turn to the Forgotten Ones in hunt and sport, perhaps he could have kept her from madness.

But he hadn’t. And he had not seen the scope of Andruil’s ire. After she had brought the destruction she had to Thedas, it had puzzled Fen’Harel (as he had yet again become, embracing the title) why she had not simply tried to destroy Bellanaris, but all the elves—why she had brought such chaos to even her own followers, her own slaves. It occurred to him much, much later, deep in his sleep, recovering his strength, that it had not been enough to destroy the one he loved, but _all_ he loved. And he loved the people, despite their flaws—or perhaps because of them. Despite his tricks, despite his pranks and lessons, he loved them. Andruil had known that perhaps before he had. And so she had set to destroy it. It was, after all, the reason Mythal too had been murdered.

But when Andruil brought forth her “armor,” truly a weapon—but one she claimed she had used in her own defense—when she had released it upon the elvhenan, when the Blight spread its madness and its destruction, when the stone turned against the dwarves, when the Forgotten Ones sang their song in triumph through the skies, through the corpses that walked the land, carrying their plague, Andruil had forgotten one thing.

You could not kill the soul of a god. Mythal sought a new home, a new vessel, but Bellanaris had not been a god—not yet—and had been lost. Or so Fen’Harel had thought.

 

Andruil had been on one of her hunts for months. Solas had not paid much attention, had even basked in the quiet and peace he had, temporarily, with Bellanaris. Things were always quieter, easier, when she was away. Bellanaris had sensed the taint before he had. She had felt a disturbance in the air itself, as if she could feel the sickness, the taint to life. It had been an arrow—a single arrow, made of complete and absolute darkness from the deepest pits of the Void—that had slain her. To this day, he could not be sure if it had not been meant for him. They had been casting a spell, standing in a clearing that had been becoming known as Bellanaris’s Circle, attempting to find a way to bridge peace between the warring elvhenan; Arlathan had been in chaos, which Solas later speculated may have been related to the madness Andruil had been slowly bringing to their realm. And so they two had been trying to cast a spell for peace, for tranquility and health when suddenly his love had yelled, shoved him, and stumbled away.

He had not seen so much blood outside of a battle.

Andruil’s laughter had been madness itself. Bellanaris had died in his arms, covering him in her hot blood. He would later learn that the arrows themselves would spread the Blight, but they had not tainted Bellanaris—simply killed her. She had died in silent agony, and her body had melted, _actually melted_ , into darkest shadow.

It had taken all of Mythal’s strength to get the weapons from her daughter, and she died in the process. But it had all been too late. The Blight had come. With the Blight, the Forgotten Ones had a foothold in Thedas. They could walk the earth, causing pain and terror, which perhaps had been Andruil’s goal all along. What better way to hunt—how much more of a challenge if they were free.

And so Solas, Fen’Harel, had tricked everyone, fooled them all. He sealed them all away. He sealed away true magic; he sealed away gods and demons and terrors. Well, he did as well as he could. The Blight still could permeate the world, when it found a crack in his Veil—when the Magisters made the crack by attacking their way into the sealed Kingdom.

The rest, as it was, was history. Solas, exhausted from his creation, slept, and the world was left to chaos and change. He wandered the Fade, unable to muster the will to awaken, even after millennia of sleep.

Until he found her. His wandering took him all through the Fade. He spoke with spirits; he learned patience. He spoke with wisdom and kindness and compassion. He learned, and learned and grew, and rested, and mourned.

Yet, in his wanderings, he was always drawn further. He was never content to stay in one place. He was seeking something, yet could not understand what it was.

Until he found her. She was young, beautiful, and her spirit was everything he remembered her to be—he recognized her at once. How could he not?

His elation, his overwhelming joy and surge of hope, love, all of it, was muted the instant he approached. She looked at him and did not know him. It was her spirit, but her memories were gone. She was herself, but diminished. Part of her, he could sense, was sealed away—and he could not understand how to break the seal.

And so he watched her. He waited, and he watched, praying she would remember him.

She never had.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enansal: Blessings  
> Ma harel: You lie  
> Garas quenathra: Why have you come?  
> Bellanaris: Eternity
> 
> I apologize for the abrupt end, and for the length of this chapter! (ू˃̣̣̣̣̣̣︿˂̣̣̣̣̣̣ ू)


	9. Mythran

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go ahead and skip this chapter if you don't give a fig about what happened to Mythran. Someone asked if he learned his lesson, and I somehow wrote six pages about it.

It had been a disappointing day. He had received a note, from (who he thought was) Arlassa, asking him to be in Ghilan’nain’s Circle in the woods at the sun’s zenith. He had expected his prayers had miraculously been answered and was already planning a prayer of thanks to Fen’Harel. Only, when he had greeted Arlassa, told her how delighted he was that she had written to him—that he had been wanting to meet with her alone for some time—she had stared at him, flabbergasted, stating _he_ had been the one to write to _her_.

The little bubble of hope, of joy, of pent up lust, that he had been harboring somewhere in his chest, right between his lungs, deflated like air slowly let out of a wine skin. When he explained he had received a note from her, she had sighed and shaken her head. It must have been her baby sister. She was always teasing Arlassa, always playing pranks, and she was _so_ , so sorry that—what was his name again? Oh, yes, Mythran—had been caught up in it all. She had smiled at him, the same smile that made his blood pressure spike, that made his heart do loops in his chest, and then turned, light on her foot as always, no cares or worries weighing her down, and positively glided back to the village.

Nothing _ever_ went Mythran’s way. It was true—Arlassa was so beautiful and so talented at the harp—that she deserved to be in a crystal palace, floating above all others like the goddess she was. _All he had wanted had been **one** night with her_. Was that so much to ask? One glorious night, spent tangled and intertwined, worshipping her body. Was that so wrong? Why did life have to spite him at _every_ turn?

Glumly, feeling just as sullen as he looked, Mythran turned trudged through the city streets. He ignored the celebrations around him. Celebrating the halla—ha! These peasants should be celebrating what possibly the most glorious _thing_ to ever exist—Arlassa. But they were blind.

He turned the alley that lead out of the village and toward his home, kicking a rock as he did, and nearly collided with his sister and a strange but disarmingly handsome— _surprisingly_ so, what business did one elf have being _that_ handsome, really; if Mythran were that handsome, Arlassa would never have snubbed him—elf beside her. The man had laughing lavender eyes that crinkled when he smiled, and had his arm looped through his sister’s. Mythran frowned, feeling apprehensive (and not just because the man was clearly much more handsome than Mythran was, no of course not).

“Aris, who’s this?” Mythran asked, eyeing the man.

Bellanaris was giving him the most loathsome look, so much so that it startled Mythran. Had he left unclean smalls on the floor of the hall again?

“ _Your_ guest,” she said tartly. “And if you’re too slow of wit to discern what that means, you don’t deserve an introduction, foolish boy.”

“Aris?” he asked, startled by her acerbity.

The man beside Bellanaris laughed softly, allowing himself to be led away by Mythran’s sister, her nose turned up in the air as she refused to answer him.

Well. That was odd.

He tried to shrug it off as he made his way towards their small home, but it just made his mood even worse. He was going to head straight inside and write something to get his emotions out when he noticed the halla were not visible. Startled, knowing how much his mother loved them, he darted to the back, intent on finding their trail—he was not talented at magic, though of course he had some; he was not skilled at the forge like his father, and could not sing—but two things he did with perhaps extraordinary talent were writing and tracking.

He was startled to a stop when he reached the back. The halla were there, but were clustered at the back window, eating what appeared to be peeled apples (and the peels that had fallen, unheeded, to the ground). Bellanaris must have forgotten to put them away. That was unlike her. He was just shooing them back when he felt…something. Not an attraction per se, but…well, a compulsion. He felt himself drawn to one of the halla, the largest one. He had to look at it, could not tear his gaze away no matter how he tried. The longer he looked at it (he realized he had started to stroke its back), the more he felt surely he could not look away.

The next four days were a blur. He could barely eat. All he could think of was the halla. He couldn’t sleep. All he wanted to do was be near it, stroke its fur, smell its musky scent. On the fifth day, well, the fifth _night_ , he could bare it no longer. What he tried to do…well, he wasn’t successful, for which he would be grateful for years to come, but only because the halla would not stay _still_. That poor beast never looked at him the same again—would flick its small tail in agitation when it saw him near.

On the sixth day, desperate, broken, nearly sobbing, he went to his sister. She was younger, but she had always been wiser—and Creators knew he couldn’t tell their parents. He confessed his obscene fascination, his inability to think of anything _but_ the halla, how he had no idea how any of this had happened.

“It happened because you prayed to Fen’Harel to take away someone’s free will to sleep with her. That’s akin to rape, brother, and Fen’Harel was not very pleased with this request.” She said it matter-of-factly, not even looking up from the leeks she was chopping for a soup.

“You…I… _what_?”

She finally looked up at him, exasperated. “You remember that man I was with?” At his nod, she continued: “That was Fen’Harel. He wanted me to show him the festival. He should be returning tomorrow for the first birth of the halla. You can ask him how to undo the jinx then.”

“You…took Fen’Harel for a stroll around our village?”

“Yes, after he laid a spell upon the halla to make you fall in love with it.”

“I don’t want to be in love with a halla!” Mythran exclaimed, nearly pulling his hair from his scalp. “That isn’t what I wanted!”

“Did you not listen?” Bellanaris set her knife down, frowning at her brother. “He did it to teach you a lesson. You wanted to tamper with someone’s ability to say no. He is showing you what that is like.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but snapped it shut, much as she had when Fen’Harel had told her exactly what Mythran had wished for. He blinked rapidly. He…he had not truly thought of it that way. Arlassa…Arlassa was a person, one who deserved to have her own wishes respected—even if that meant he could never sleep with her.

Oh. But…

“But Arlassa is so beautiful!” he said again, trying to push this realization away. “She is a glorious goddess who deserves nothing but the best! And I would give that to her!” He thought, anyway. Right now, it was _genuinely_ difficult to think of anything other than that blasted halla.

Bellanaris snorted, rolling her eyes as she went back to preparing their nightly meal. “She is just a person, like you or I. Don’t place her above you. And no, you would not give her ‘the best,’ whatever that is; you would commit rape upon her.”

“No! I wanted Fen’Harel to make her consent! I wanted her consent!”

His sister slammed the knife down, looking at him with blazing eyes. “Yes, but she has not given it! If you force someone to do something they have not willingly agreed to, if you use magic to change her mind or _force her to do something—that is not **consent**_.”

Putting it that way was almost unfair. He did not want to acknowledge that she was a person, that she might have desires that conflicted with his own.

Yet, he did not want to desire the halla. He did not want to think about it late at night. He did not want to lose his appetite because all he could do was dream of the halla. If…if Fen’Harel had cast magic upon Arlassa to make her consent to something she might not otherwise have agreed to…that would be exactly like what he was feeling for the halla, wouldn’t it? Forced admiration—forced desire that ate away at him, that made him hate himself. Would Arlassa have hated herself afterwards too?

The thought made his stomach turn. What if she awoke the next day, hating herself, hating what she had done? What if she had to carry that feeling for the rest of her life?

Mythran deflated like a wineskin again. He looked at his sister, the fire in her eyes, and knew she was right. He swallowed, and meekly asked, “but how do I make this feeling for the halla disappear?”

Bellanaris flared her nostrils and went back, once again, to chopping, perhaps more viciously than before. “Wait for Fen’Harel. He will be here tomorrow, and will tell you.”

“Can’t you help? You’re so good with magic.”

She laughed, startled. “You think my magic rivals that of Fen’Harel?”

Mythran threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know! How do you know he will come back? What if he leaves me like this for eternity?”

“He said he would be coming, and he will not break his word to me.”

“But how do you _know_ he will come?”

Bellanaris shrugged. “I asked him to. I wanted to see him again, and so I asked him to return. He said he would be delighted.”

This…this was madness. His sister, his boring sister who had never shown much interest in taking men for walks through the market, for sitting beside them at festivals or celebrations, had asked a Creator—not just a Creator, _Fen’Harel_ —to come with her to the halla birthing. Mythran needed to sit down.

Mythran was only slightly surprised, after the discussion with his sister, when Fen’Harel did in fact return the next day. He sheepishly asked Fen’Harel how to rid himself of the curse, and Fen’Harel had given him the simplest answer: he simply had to kiss the halla—no, it did not have to be on the halla’s mouth—and the curse would be broken.

Then it was just a matter of getting near the halla. After the other night, it skirt and skit away from him when he got too close. Eventually, he had to hide in the tall grass, wait for it to get near, and lunge at it, arms spread, tackle the poor thing and plant a kiss upon the back of its neck. It bucked him off quickly, but thankfully, by then, Mythran was just as eager to get away from the beast as it was to get away from him.

Mythran learned two things that day: that women were people, and deserved to have their wishes respected; and secondly, that he should never, _ever_ pray frivolously—least of all to Fen’Harel, of whom he would eventually grow rather fond, which, he supposed, was a good thing considering he seemed incapable of leaving his sister alone for too extended a period of time.

As the years passed, Fen’Harel—Solas, as he eventually asked to be called, for that was his name before, he said—became a dear friend. Did he ever successfully woo Arlassa? No, after the halla incident, he was too ashamed of himself to face her again. He did end up marrying, however: a hunter. One who appreciated his poetry, and liked to hear him sing at the end of the day, even if his voice cracked sometimes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter shall return to your regularly scheduled programming.


	10. Asthéneia

Elandrine could not keep her eyes from watering. The story he told was familiar somehow, as if she had dreamed it maybe, once long ago, but she could not make herself _remember_. It was a horrible sensation. She sat up, cupping her husband’s face, wiping away the solitary tear that tracked down his cheek with her thumb. She kissed him, and he kissed her back with so much passion and heart that Elandrine was certain her heart might break.

He broke the kiss, his own hands sliding over her cheeks, holding her face close as he pressed his forehead to her own. “To touch you…to kiss you—I am terrified this is a dream that I shall wake from at any moment.”

Unable to help herself, she slid into his lap. She rubbed herself against him until she felt him stirring to life once more. She didn’t know how to reassure him. Perhaps this was all a dream—perhaps they were all trapped in the Fade and nothing was real. If that were the case, they needed to take advantage of every moment possible together. Her mouth found his, and he was eager to kiss her back. Their lips pressed and pressed again, moving against each other’s with a passion she had never known could exist. Her hips rocked against his until he was full and ready for her again.

Without looking, she used a hand to guide him into her welcome warmth. He inhaled sharply, his brows furrowing in pleasure. He released a slow groan a she leaned back, her arms supporting her as she swiveled her hips. His hands gripped her breasts, squeezing them tightly as she started to bounce up and down on his lap. The support of his hands was welcome—it kept her bosom from bouncing too wildly, and the way his palms felt against her nipples was sublime.

The angle was so good—she felt her orgasm building without needing to rub her clit. She rolled her hips, slowing her pace, dragging it out as she used his erection to rub that delicious spot inside her over and over again. He was panting, not from exertion, but desire. Their eyes locked together, and the intensity of his gaze, coupled with the feel of his throbbing erection hitting _just the perfect spot_ over and over and over, was just what she needed. Her body shivered and she moaned, her muscles clamping around him as she continued riding him hard, drawing out her orgasm as long as she could.

Once she had stopped trembling quite so violently, once she had finished riding it out, Solas let out a soft growl, wrapped an arm around her waist, and flipped her onto her stomach. He dragged her hips back up, grinning at her small gasp of surprise. He mounted her from behind, pressing down upon her back with his chest, and began to piston into her. He used one arm to support himself on the mattress, and the other wrapped around her waist, holding her in place and allowing his hand to seek her clit. His fingers rubbed it, slowly at first, then more voraciously as he picked up his pace.

Her legs were shaking. Another orgasm was building and her arms were going to give out. She collapsed forward and he followed her down, keeping her hips up, his fingers deftly working on her clit. She screamed into the mattress as the second orgasm had her clenching him, her muscles contracting against her will. He let out a hoarse cry himself, and seconds after her, he filled her with his seed.

They lay together, spent, exhausted, but _content_. Solas would have been happy sharing her love, holding her, sleeping beside her—but to be able to have this intimacy, this physical connection and mutual pleasure…he could not wish for more fulfillment.

Laying upon furs and blankets, sprawled and tangled together, they both slept. Elandrine dreamed of a young elvhen woman with eyes the color of rich soil. She could not quite make out her face, but her eyes…there was so much in her eyes.

Solas woke her with a cup of tea and fresh fruit. They ate together, watching each other, until they could not take it and made love again. Once they had finished, Solas began to dress. Elandrine sat up on the bed, one of their furs draped across her shoulder, leaving one breast exposed.

“Where are you going? To see Hera again?”

“Yes,” he said, fastening his cloak about his neck. “I need to see if she has made any progress with the tainted lyrium.”

Elandrine moved towards the edge of the bed, and ignored the way Solas’ gaze flicked downwards when she dropped the fur. “Take me with you.”

“I would take you everywhere, if it were possible,” he said, and she was unable to determine whether or not that had been an innuendo. The glint of mischief in his eye told her it was.

“So take me. Only do not leave me alone. I will talk to Demeter, tell her that all will be well, but _take me with you_.”

He watched her, his gaze intense, and she could see the struggle he was having not collapsing upon her again. He squared his shoulders. She was right. She should come. He hated leaving her alone when there was so much danger afoot—so much unknown. Who knew where Dirthamen or Falon’Din were? Who knew when Andruil might strike?

“Alright,” he said, cautiously. “But you must stay by my side. There is danger everywhere, and I cannot be certain who remembers our former lives, and who does not.”

Her entire face lit up, and Solas could not stop himself from kissing her. He kept it quick and chaste, gave her her robes to dress, and, arm in arm, they left the Underworld for Olympus.

 

Ɵ

 

Olympus was all abustle when they arrived. Everyone was gathered, even those who did not live among the mighty pillars of Zeus’ home. Solas managed to stop Hermes by grabbing the young god by the arm as he went speeding along on his winged sandals.

“Hermes—what is going on?”

The young god, the normal mischievous glint to his eye gone, his face grim, shook his head. “Terrible. It’s Aphrodite.” The two were jostled by Ares, looking livid as he marched quickly and purposefully towards Zeus’ chambers. Somehow, both Solas and Elandrine knew that this was an unusual state for the god of war—when enraged, he would yell, throw things, challenge any and everyone who stood before him; this quiet rage was menacing and made them both wary.

“What about Aphrodite?” Elandrine asked, laying a gentle hand upon Hermes’ arm.

Hermes shivered, looking after the god of war. “Yes…she was attacked.”

“Attacked?” Solas and Elandrine exclaimed in unison.

“In her own chamber. She is there now, with Apollo and Asclepius. They are trying to undo whatever damage they can, but are having little success.”

Solas scowled. He might not be Hades in truth, but he had the god’s memories, and, to an extent, his loyalties and emotions. An attack on Aphrodite was an attack upon them all. He would not stand for this. “Why did Zeus not summon me?”

“He has been trying,” Hermes said, finally pulling free. “We haven’t been able to reach the Underworld. I must go—I am to deliver a message.” He turned, his winged sandals buzzing already, and was gone in a flash of color and gust of wind.

“BROTHER!”

Solas and Elandrine turned, startled by Zeus’ mighty bellow. The leader of the heavens was strolling towards them, Ares behind him, Hera by his side.

“Brother,” Zeus said, moderating his tone when he approached the two. “I have been summoning you for hours. What has stopped my messages? Not even Hermes could reach Charon.” When Solas opened his mouth to respond, Zeus shook his head. “We will discuss it in my chambers. Much has happened. Leave your wife—this is not a matter for my daughter. She is too young.”

Solas tensed, knowing full well that an attack on Aphrodite meant none were safe—not even here. “I think it best if—”

Elandrine laid a hand upon his forearm, stilling him. “It’s fine. I will go see if I can be assistant to Apollo and Asclepius, husband.”

Solas paused, frowning. He tore a piece of his heavy cloak free of its sleeve, then with a blade he had hidden upon his waist, sliced his thumb. He soaked the cloth in his blood, then tied it around Elandrine’s wrist. “If you need of me, for any reason—and I do mean any—you will rub this, and I will come.”

Smiling softly, Elandrine stood on her tiptoes and planted a kiss upon her husband’s cheek. When she would have turned away to go to Aphrodite’s chamber, Solas stalled her by grabbing her about the waist and kissing her passionately. He left her, breathless, and disappeared with the others into Zeus’ chambers. Hera was the last to leave, and she gave the young goddess a knowing smile before disappearing.

It took a moment for Elandrine to recover from the kiss. It had been unexpected and _so_ passionate. She felt her skin tingling as she made her way through the throngs of gods and into Aphrodite’s abode. Surprisingly, no one was there to stop her. When she entered, she could not see the goddess at first. She saw Hephaestus, leaning heavily on his crutch as he hung back behind Apollo and his son, Asclepius. There was a small hum in the air, familiar, which made her skin crawl in a much different fashion to Solas’ kiss.

Hephaestus looked up at her solemnly, nodding, clearly worried about his wife. “Persephone,” he said, his voice low, husky, but surprisingly gentle. Elandrine laid a hand upon his arm and gave his a squeeze.

“How are you, Hephaestus?” she asked, keeping her voice as soft as she could.

He shook his head, looking past the other two gods as they busied about, trying to heal the goddess.

It was then she saw it: an arrow, blaring with a sickening red glow, large and imposing, piercing Aphrodite’s breast, pinning her to the wall.

The arrow was made of that same red, sick lyrium. Elandrine’s heart skipped a beat. “Who did this?”

Hephaestus could only shake his head. “She will not awaken. We know nothing. Apollo cannot heal the wound. Asclepius fears worse damage if we try to remove it without first finding a cure.”

“No,” Elandrine said, looking at the goddess of love, her beautiful face ashen, her curly hair limp, looking drained and brittle. She pushed past the gods of healing, looking at the wound. “We must remove it at once. It will spread. The evil and sickness will spread. Get it out of her.”

Asclepius looked at Elandrine, frowning. “We tried; the wound persisted in bleeding and would not stop. We bound it, used poultices, even Hecate’s magic could do nothing. Only putting the arrow back ceased the bleeding.”

Elandrine shook her head. “You don’t understand. There are probably fragments inside her, keeping the wound fresh. You must remove it. When I was pierced with the substance, slivers entered my blood and made me sick. I had to not only remove the shards, but heal them as well. The stone is sick.”

Apollo looked startled. “ _You_ were pierced by this? I have not seen it before—where? What happened?”

Asclepius waved away the words. “Not important. You healed the _stone_? How?”

Elandrine gripped the base of the arrow, feeling it burn her skin, and looked at the god of healing. “Help me remove this, and I shall show you.”

Asclepius nodded mutely, using a cloth to protect his hands, and pulled. Even working together, the arrow barely budged. Hephaestus’ large hands landed on both of their shoulders. He pulled them back gently. Once they were out of his way, hands bare, he gripped the arrow and tugged. With a grunt of effort, he pulled the thing from Aphrodite’s breast. What looked like a chunk of skin, perhaps muscle, and so much blood came away with it. Aphrodite did not even wince, but remained motionless, ill. Apollo took the arrow from Hephaestus, wrapped it in leather and put it down, away from them.

“Come,” Elandrine said, taking one of each of the healers’ hands and placing them above the wound. “Do you feel that?”

“I feel…heat.”

“Sickness,” Asclepius said.

Elandrine nodded. “You cannot use your eyes. It will be impossible to see. I did was able to do it because I could feel it poisoning in my blood. I hunted it out. I will work with you and try to do the same here.”

Asclepius nodded. “I believe I understand. Let me try.”

Working together, the three set out to remove each shard, every grain of tainted lyrium, in Aphrodite’s wound. It may have been hours, or minutes, or seconds, Elandrine could not say, but once their task was finally finished, sweat beading each brow, there was a slight red glow to the opening of the wound itself.

“We have to get them off of her,” she said. “It isn’t enough to pull them from the wound. We have to get them away.”

“Here,” Apollo used a piece of cloth dipped in wine to wipe the wound, careful to let no grain escape his ministrations. When he was done, and the wound no longer glowed with an angry crimson hue, Asclepius set to work.

After a few minutes of concentrating, he smiled. “I can heal it; I can feel the wound healing now.”

Hephaestus let out a shaky sigh of relief. Elandrine stepped out of the way so Aphrodite’s husband could be by her side. The giant of a god held the goddess’s much more delicate hand, as color slowly began to return to her face.

It was long work, healing that wound. Asclepius was dripping with heavenly sweat by the time it was closed. He nearly collapsed into his father’s arms, and he looked up at Apollo. “It is done. She will need time to heal, but it is done.”

Hephaestus stroked his wife’s hair back from her face, the curls once again showing some bounce and lustre. When her eyelashes fluttered, and her eyes opened, he nearly wept with joy, and collapsed to his knees beside her.

“Wife,” he said, his voice stricken with emotion. She smiled tiredly, one hand going to stroke his cheek with an affection that was shockingly tender.

“Husband,” she replied, her voice weak.

“Who did this?” Apollo demanded.

“Can that not wait?” Hephaestus demanded. “Let her rest!”

“We need to know,” Asclepius said, a touch more kindly than his father.

When Hephaestus would have protested further, Aphrodite silenced him with a gentle finger to his lips. “Thanatos came to me,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “He brought with him your twin.” Her eyes locked on Apollo. “Artemis demanded I craft a spell of love for her. She wanted me to order Eros to…to send his arrow for her. She had Thanatos threaten me with his sister, the Keres, if I did not. I laughed for I cannot die. She said she would make me wish I could.” She closed her eyes. “The pain…the pain was unimaginable. My entire body was afire…”

Hephaestus brushed his fingers through his wife’s hair. “Hush now, love.”

She smiled at him, her face still so tired.

Apollo, looking drawn, angry, surprised, torn and unwilling to believe his sister could betray herself in such a way, demanded, “for whom would Artemis seek an arrow of love?”

Aphrodite turned her large, doe eyes to Apollo. The name hung in the air, heavy, like a threat, and when it hit Elandrine’s ears, it chilled her to her very core.

“Hades. She wanted an arrow for Hades.”

 


	11. Therapéfsei

“Hades.”

The name hung between the five of them, and though it was whispered, it seemed to echo about the walls, shaking each one to their core. Finally, incredulous, Hephaestus said, “what?”

Elandrine wanted to laugh and cry at once. Why had that surprised her? Why hadn’t she expected it to be Solas? Wasn’t that the obvious answer?

Aphrodite simply nodded, closing her eyes to rest. No one knew what to say, and the silence grew pained. Apollo stared at the wall, his jaw clenched tightly, obviously upset. Perhaps to clear a bit of the tension, Asclepius turned his gaze to the arrow and the pulsing red shards. “I have never seen a poison like this. We do not get sick. It is not our nature.”

Elandrine followed his gaze to the tainted lyrium. “It is the most toxic poison I have ever had the displeasure of being exposed to. It is not natural, I think.” She paused, swallowing her nerves. “I think that Andr—Artemis,” she corrected quickly, “found it. She has used it before.”

“What?” Apollo demanded, his entire body tensing. Now a vein was twitching in his jaw. He had been silent this whole time, ever since the goddess of love had accused his sister of being the one to fire the arrow. “None of this makes sense.”

He was interrupted as the door to the chamber once more swung open, and in entered Zeus, his presence filling the large room with an electric, ecstatic energy. Hera was right behind him, her presence calming and stilling the sudden burst, and Hades and Ares came next, and seeing Solas instantly caused Elandrine’s erratic heart beat to even and slow. Solas smiled at her, his own relief apparent. Then Elandrine jumped, shocked by a sudden and surprising burst of laughter from Zeus.

“Asclepius! You did it! You healed her!” He slapped his grandson heartily on the shoulder. The younger and smaller god winced, rubbing his shoulder.

“Yes, but it was not I alone who healed her. Apollo and Persephone helped—and without Persephone’s guidance, I fear we could not have done so.”

Clearly startled, he turned to Elandrine. “Is this so?”

“I have had the benefit of seeing this before,” she replied, uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny.

Luckily, Hephaestus could no longer keep mum. “It was Artemis, Father.”

“WHAT!” Zeus roared the word, the electric energy once more filling the chamber, causing the silken curtains that elegantly draped the window overlooking some private garden to billow.

“None of this makes sense!” Apollo exclaimed. “Aphrodite has said that Artemis is in league with Thanatos to have Eros craft an arrow of love for Hades. Why would she do that? She is a virgin goddess. She is not troubled by love and lust the way you or I are.”

Hades stepped forward, grabbing Ares’ arm to steady the god when he looked like he was ready to charge from the room and wage war on Artemis then and there. Solas did not like this situation. He wanted to take Elandrine and steal her back to his lair where he could keep her safe and secure. But the knew that no matter how safe it was, it was temporary; Andruil would come for them. And he had responsibilities he could not shirk. “She is not in her right mind. This red poison, this tainted stone, has damaged her and poisoned her sanity. Apollo, she needs our help as much as we need to stop her.”

The god of music looked at the leather satchel, pulsing with a soft red glow. “I can feel its sickness—even from here. It can drive one mad?” At Solas’ nod, the bard continued. “How do you know?”

“He has seen it before,” Elandrine said. “As have I. It grows where there is darkness. It grows deep in the earth, where sickness is never touched, never cured, by the sun.”

“There are creatures that live in the dark that Hades and I believe Artemis was hunting,” Hera said. “Powerful foes full of evil and darkness themselves. She hunted them and was exposed to this stone.” Mythal placed a hand on Zeus’ arm. “Our daughter thought to make a weapon out of it. It is powerful. It drove her mad.”

Apollo looked at Zeus, his expression pained, angry. “Is is true, Father? Why did you not tell me?”

Zeus’ jaw tightened. “I did not see it.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from nearly everyone.

“But the sight you gained from Metis…” Hephaestus ventured, tentatively, not wishing to bring Zeus’s ire upon himself.

“It is blind when it comes to this stone. I can see nothing.”

Elandrine leaned towards Asclepius and whispered, “who is Metis?”

Asclepius looked uncomfortable. “We do not speak of her.”

Well that was frustrating. No wonder Persephone did not know of her. She would have to ask Solas later. Now they had to focus on the task at hand.

“If this stone is somehow afflicted with an illness,” Apollo said, thinking aloud, “then it can be cured. If this stone can be cured, then so can my sister.”

“It can be!” All eyes turned to Persephone, and she grew decidedly nervous. “I have cured it.”

“You?” Ares asked after a small silence. His voice was deeper than Elandrine expected, but just as haughty as Persephone remembered.

“Yes,” Elandrine answered, doing her best to sound confident, not as meek as she felt. “I was infected by some, and I…cured it. I think.”

“How?” Asclepius demanded, his curiosity apparent.

She wanted to shrug, but she knew they would press until she said something, anything. “It felt like death inside of me. Like winter in my veins. I suppose I…I focused on how spring feels, on how the it feels for the first hyacinth to push its way through the snow towards the sun. I filled the stone with that feeling and…it got better,” she finished, lamely.

Asclepius was visually deflated. “Oh. I do not know if I can do such a thing.”

“No,” Elandrine said slowly, “but I think you can find your own way of healing it. Of restoring it to normalcy. You felt the sickness—”

“We all did,” Apollo cut in.

“Exactly,” Elandrine continued. “So you each do what it is that makes it feel normal, healthy. Whatever that means to you.”

Despite her worry that her suggestion was inadequate, Asclepius’s eyes seemed to light up. “Yes, I think I understand what you mean.”

Zeus let out an impatient grunt. “If you understand, try it on that arrow there. See if you can heal this.”

“This is a waste of time,” Ares said, scowling. “We need to hunt Artemis down for what she has done.”

“We are not hunting my sister like some wild stag,” Apollo rejoined, taking a step towards the god of war.

Mythal heaved a sigh, stepping between her two sons. “We won’t harm her if at all possible, but we do need to prevent her from using this weapon again. We shall heal her if we can. I suggest we do as my husband says, and both Apollo and Asclepius see if they can replicate what Persephone has already achieved.”

Apollo scoffed, turning towards the arrow. “If she can do it, so can I.”

The god of healing and his father both stood over the arrow. They looked at each other, then began to work, each in his own way. Asclepius merely closed his eyes, using energy to feel the sickness in the stone and to work on its cure. Apollo was silent for a few moments, then he began to sing to heal the illness, to restore its balance. Elandrine had thought she had heard beautiful music before. She had been mistaken. Nothing, truly nothing, could come close to comparing to Apollo’s voice, unaccompanied. It was truly humbling to be in the presence of such profound beauty. He sang wordlessly, but it seemed, to Elandrine, to be a song of renewal, harmony and peace, something one might sing to celebrate and praise life itself.

Solas watched as the two worked on the arrow. It was slow work, but they were able to do it. After perhaps just under an hour, the two of them had the weapon cleared of all taint and sickness.

When it was done, Zeus roared with approval and heartily slapped his descendants on their backs. “Excellent! I I knew you both could do it!”

“Of course we could,” Apollo replied, though he sounded much less snappy than he had before.

Impatient as ever, Ares, his eyes glued to Hephaestus’s wife, said, “Well and good, but how do we find Artemis? I doubt overmuch that she shall have lingered on Olympus after her egregious attack.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Aphrodite said, her eyelashes lowering modestly. There was some undeniable bond between Love and War, but it was nothing either could act upon directly in front of her husband. They had that much shame, at least.

Hephaestus, seemingly unfazed by this, or, at the very least, accustomed to it, turned to Zeus and Hera. “We must summon everyone. Aphrodite has said Thanatos was with her, but he mentioned the Keres would do as he bid as well. We cannot know how far this taint, this sickness and betrayal, has spread.”

“You are right, son,” Mythal said, a small frown upon her brow. “We must interview everyone to see if they reek of this sickness.”

Zeus nodded, rubbing at his chin beneath his beard. “I will summon everyone. Ares!”

Reluctantly, the god of war tore his gaze from Aphrodite, and turned to face Zeus. “Yes, Father.”

“Fetch Hermes and the winds. I want everyone summoned as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, Father,” Ares repeated again. His back was stiff, spine rigid, as he left Aphrodite’s chamber, not casting one last look behind him.

“Hades,” Zeus said once his son was gone, turning to his brother, “I want you to see to the Underworld. Make certain none there are afflicted with the stone-sickness. Return to me once you have completed this task, and no later than tomorrow eve.”

“Of course,” Solas said, holding out his hand for Elandrine to take—which she did happily, eager to be away from this chaos.

“Oh, and brother,” Zeus said, causing the two to pause before exiting, “I warn you that Demeter is seeking you. I was able to keep her from you until now, but I do not think she will be stopped again.”

Elandrine gave Solas’ hand a reassuring squeeze, and she said softly, for his ears only, “I shall see to her, husband.”

Solas smiled at her. “We shall see her together,” he said, then opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blergh! I am sorry this took so long. I keep getting really, really sick?? I think my house is infected with mold, and I have spent a week bleaching everything. OKAY. Enjoy! Bye for now!


	12. Nyx

It wasn't as difficult as Elandrine expected to avoid Demeter. There was so much chaos on Olympus, so many gods clustering and flustering about, that Elandrine and Solas were able to escape, so to speak, with relative ease. They left the mythical mountain, and traveled swiftly back to their home. In a way, Elandrine felt poorly for what she had done, for evading Demeter, for not bothering to discuss with the woman what was going on, how she was not a prisoner, but time was so short. There was much at stake, and few hours to try and smooth things with her mother...err, mother-figure.

 

They spent the remainder of the afternoon and well into the night searching through the Underworld. Charon was found, told to keep Cerberus near to guard the entrance of the Underworld well, as they were anticipating some form of attack or invasion. Hecate and Hypnos teamed together to search for the Moirai, the three Fates, as they could not be found. Nyx was summoned from the deepest, darkest reaches of the Underworld. She was difficult to reach, but she finally returned the summons, appearing before Elandrine and her husband in the darkest glory the spring goddess had ever seen.

 

Nyx entered the throne room with a grace that was stunning and striking. Every part of her, save for the whites of her eyes, was the pitchest black that Elandrine had ever seen. Her skin, her hair, her nails, her robes, all the deepest jet, pure and unsullied. She radiated power, strength and yet a sense of calm—not peace exactly, but the quiet and calm of the grave. It was oddly soothing, somehow. Winter's rest. The darkest hour of night before dawn. Then Elandrine blinked, and it was like clouds parting in the sky above. Nyx's skin erupted into dazzling stars, planets and galaxies dusting her skin like freckles, luminous and enchanting and constantly in motion. Elandrine had to look away lest she be overcome with the beauty of the goddess—more than a goddess, she thought; a primordial force.

 

Her voice, when she spoke, was soft, a breeze, gentle but irresistible, with a strength that matched the determination of her glorious eyes. “You have summoned me, son of Kronos and Rhea, god of wealth, the lower realms, Pluton, from whom the souls of the living receive their justice.” Her eyes, round as full moons, seemed to penetrate into Solas. She regarded him a long while, her face placid, belying how alert the goddess truly was.

 

“Child of Chaos and Air,” Solas rejoined. “Mother of Light, of Day and Darkness. My wife and I seek your council.” When Nyx remained silent, clearly waiting for him to state his desires, Solas continued. “Olympus is beset with a poison, one that has the capacity to taint the heart of a god.”

 

“I have felt this,” Nyx said, and fell silent again.

 

“Do you know from whence it came?” Solas tilted his head, watching the goddess. “My wife found some of the stone it originates from deep within the heart of the Underworld itself.”

 

At that, her eyes flashed, lightning striking and splitting the night sky. “You think me tainted, I see. You wanted to test my allegiances, to see if I had been corrupted the way Artemis-Andruil has.” Both Solas and Elandrine perked at that, beyond shocked. Elandrine opened her mouth to speak, but closed it, unknowing what to say. “You should not think me so weak, Pluton. This toxicity that fills you with dread, oh Wolf, did not originate in the blessed Dark. You mistake your fear of blackness as its wickedness, and this is erroneous. You, of all, ought know better.”

 

“You know who we are,” he said, shamed by her words. It was exactly as she said; he, of all, should know better than to make assumptions. It was a gross mistake, and one he would not be making any time soon.

 

Elandrine leaned forward, her earnestness apparent on her face, the brightness of her eyes catching Nyx's attention. “Mother-Darkness, creator of Light and Day and Vengeance, you have sensed its sickness. Is the Underworld grossly tainted with it?”

 

The goddess turned the power of her orbed eyes to Elandrine, and the girl tried to steel her spine. No, steel was the wrong word. Her spine was an oaken sapling, able to bend under pressure, to not break and shatter as tempered metal does. Nyx regarded her, looking into her, and, after what seemed an eternity, nodded once. “This land is sick. The Artemis-Andruil abomination arrived before you. Her presence began as a whisper. I could hear her calling. She came to me in the rock of the earth, and when I would not home her, she turned to Artemis, perhaps a better fit. This realm was once the field of souls, but now it is ruled by Death and madness.”

 

“If you felt it coming, if you knew that Artemis was possessed, why did you not warn Zeus?”

 

“I tried,” Nyx said, patient, calm, still. “Selene sent him dreams, visions, begging him to come to me. He would not listen. He is strong, but I believe even him to feel the effects of the taint.”

 

“Why not go to him, Nyx?” Elandrine asked. There was no rancor or accusation, simply curiosity, as if she understood something had kept the goddess from ascending to Olympus.

 

“In truth, even this journey here is a strain.” At that she half-turned, looking off into the distance. “My daughters...You have noticed, I understand, that the Vengeances are missing?” At their combined nods, Nyx continued. “I have put them into sleep. They have been tainted. I did not notice at first, because it was a slow thing, this poison arrow. When I realized, it was too late. I had to act, and quickly, for if Vengeance is compromised, then all will surely be lost.”

 

Solas' hands gripped in his robes, balling into tight fists then relaxing, his fingers stretching wide on his thighs. “But you have contained them somehow?”

 

“I have. I have enveloped them in myself, where I know they cannot escape. But it takes nearly all my energy to maintain my hold on them. Every day that passes, this horrible thing grows stronger inside them. I have no rest, no respite. I closed my eyes a moment, during the day, and that is how it entered the Underworld.”

 

Elandrine inhaled sharply, standing suddenly. “May I try?” She ignored the way Solas tensed beside her, and instead of letting him take her hand and pull her back to his side, she made quick work of the steps between the thrones and Nyx. The goddess of Night, of Darkness, regarded her steadily, the stars on her skin twinkling like crushed diamonds full of light. The primordial being's gaze was intense, but Elandrine didn't feel anything but conviction. She could do this. She could feel spring beating inside Persephone's heart— _her_ heart.

 

Nyx reached out and took Elandrine's hands into her own. The goddess of night had surprisingly warm skin, smooth and soft, but her grip was firm. Elandrine could feel the turmoil inside her. There was a sickness there, contained, but only just. Nyx was intensely strong to keep the illness not only subdued, but to stop it from spreading.

 

Elandrine felt the cool breath of spring welling up in her sternum. She closed her eyes, focusing entirely on feeling. She could feel the beauty of growth, of life, the waking of a long, deep sleep. There was joy in spring, in new life. _New life_. She could feel it, there, bubbling inside of her. She let it build, grow and thrive until she was certain her chest might burst, and then she let it spill out, running down her arms like so much water, flowing through her hands and into Nyx's.

 

The goddess of night gasped, her eyes fluttering briefly, before closing. Her fingers threaded through the girl's. She could feel a coldness running into her, refreshing after the burning heat she had endured. Night was meant to be cold, still, the peace of the darkest cave, not this burning infection that she held in behind her ribs. She let that cool energy enter her, pierce her to her core. Every muscle that she had held clenched, every tense tendon, every strain to keep things taut, tight, stressed, she could feel this crisp freshness ease in and relax them. She let out a shaky sigh of relief. It took her a moment to be able to fully let Persephone in, to let her fully face the infection inside, but once she did, the healthy breath of spring hit her like a blow to the gut. She staggered forward, but did not release Persephone's hands. She held on tightly as the earthy goddess worked on healing the infection in her three daughters.

 

Solas watched, sensing a huge amount of energy flowing between the two—no, five—women. If he relaxed his eyes, he could see the energy had a spring green color to it. It was the color of life, of new growth, of healing. It was beautiful, powerful, and it made Solas feel at once proud and apprehensive. Aris, too, had had great abilities to bring growth, to call forth life. He was not the praying sort—to whom would he address his pleas?—but he hoped desperately that history would not repeat itself now.

 

The whole process was much shorter than he was expecting, perhaps ten, fifteen minutes. It felt eternal, with how great his worry was, but truly was quick. When Elandrine finally stepped back, still glowing, Nyx threw her head back and gasped. There was a brilliant flash of light, and suddenly, Nyx was surrounded by her three daughters, the Erinyes. They were a sight to behold, terrible and frightening. They had wings that sprouted from their shoulder blades, large and intimidating. Snakes writhed through their hair, around their waists and twined along their wrists. Their robes were black, harkening back to their mother.

 

They moved together as one to support their mother, arms supporting her waist and shoulders. They remained silent, ominous and awesome in their magnitude. They were holy and righteous, there to avenge those who could not do so for themselves. Keepers of the dead and the damned.

 

Nyx once more looked to Elandrine, who was standing a few feet away, staring down at her hands as they sparked with a healing green light. She looked up, sensing the gaze, and smiled at Nyx.

 

“Thank you, Woman of Three. You have not only saved me, but you have saved the world from a terrible vengeance it does not merit. Remember me, when you are lost, when all is dark, and you cannot find your way home. I shall aid you, oh Split-Soul, as you have aided me and mine.”

 

Nyx bowed deeply to the lord of the Underworld and his wife, and the longer Elandrine looked at her, the harder it was to see her. It was as if her edges had lost definition, and she was slowly becoming the shadow and darkness that graced the throne room. One last blink, and the stars that had twinkled across her skin were gone, leaving behind only her winged daughters. The Erinyes, Vengeance, turned towards Hades.

 

“Master,” the tallest one said, her voice deep, raspy but pleasant, “we have been wronged. Our sight speaks and tells us Aphrodite, the soft goddess of love who is at once tender and fierce, has been wronged. Our sight speaks to us and tells us the Fates have been wronged. Your wife, the life giver, barren never, has been wronged. Your realm, and thereby you, have been wronged.”

 

“We would seek to bring justice and vengeance,” the shortest said. Her jaw was square, sturdy, her body trim but stocky. There was strength in her, in all the sisters.

 

“Do we have your leave?” the third asked, her voice a breath of sound, an echo in a distance cavern.

 

Solas held up his palm, frowning. “The Fates, the Moirae, are missing. You say they have been wronged? Can you see how?”

 

“Our sight, oh Lord, is dim,” they said in unison, and the tallest again continued, “so we cannot see beyond the holy rage. We cannot see their plight, only the justice that must be wrought.”

 

“Justice,” Elandrine said softly, thoughtfully. Her countenance grew visibly brighter. “Yes! Justice! We must find Astraea.”

 

Solas rubbed his chin absently in thought, his long fingers tapping a quick beat against his skin. “Yes, excellent idea. If anyone can help, it will be Justice. Erinyes,” he said, sitting up straight, shoulders back, posture impeccable. “Go to Olympus. Seek Astraea and Nike together. Work with them to find Artemis, and develop a plan with Zeus to stop her. Explain to him that my wife and I will be here, looking for the Fates. Give us twenty-four hours, and if you hear nothing, come back. If you need us for any reason, come and tell us.”

 

Elandrine ascended the throne, and took his hand as he stood. They turned to the Erinyes, all of whom bowed their heads in respect. In a swirl of wing, feather and darkness, they disappeared. The silence left in the room was intense, but companionable. The two looked at each other, sure in the knowledge of what they must do. Solas squeezed her hand gently, and led her down the short steps.

 

“Come, my love. We must find Fate, and hope it is not too late.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm in a bit better of a place. We have to move, so have been looking for a new place to rent for a decent amount of money, but it's a process. We hope to be settled soon. I'm going to try to finish this in a few chapters, and then finally get back to my main fic--the one I haven't updated in approximately an eon. ╰(◕ᗜ◕)╯ Forgive me my typos. I hate editing when that's a huge part of my job (ノ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ノ︵┻┻ and I always want to get the chapter out the very second it's done. Forgive meeeeeeeee


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